The NeverEnding Road
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: AU - What if you were cursed to keep running into your soul mate but it always ended in tragedy? Bounces off of Haven't Met You Yet. Chapter 7 Purge Your Soul. Final Chapter Slash. Rated M
1. Prologue

The Never-Ending Road.

**A/N: A little AU story I've been thinking about. It kind of bounces off of my story Haven't Met You Yet, at least it refers to it. You don't have to read the other one, but you can if you want some emotional background. I will continue this if there's any interest. Let me know. You can review or PM me. Will be slash if I continue.**

_Do with me what thou will: my will is thy will: I appeal not against thy judgements_

_Prayer of _Æ_pictitas_

John moved out of Sarah's. They'd moved in together a couple of months ago, but it just wasn't working. He tried to make her happy and she tried to make him happy, but they just couldn't get it together. He moved in with an old friend from his Bart's days. Mike Stamford. Moved into the spare room. Here he was back from Afghanistan six months, 36 years old and he was living with a friend. Might as well be at uni or living with his parents. If they were still alive that is.

He really wanted to move out on his own, but he wasn't getting enough hours and he didn't know, now that he and Sarah had broken up, if she was still going to give him the extra shifts at the surgery.

Then one day Mike came home from Bart's with some news.

"Would you be interested in moving in with this bloke I know from Bart's? He's looking for someone to share a flat, but doesn't think anyone would move in with him."

"What's wrong with him?" asked John.

'Well he's…er, well. I think you're going to have to see for yourself. He's different. Might drive you mad. Bit more than mad himself."

Faint alarm bells were ringing at the back of John's head and his stomach clenched, but he didn't say or show anything to Mike.

But John knew Mike was just trying to help and probably wanted him out of his house. They were expecting another kid in a few months. So he agreed to come to Bart's tomorrow and Mike would introduce him to Sherlock.

"Strange name," mused John.

"You don't know the half of it," he grinned.

So the next day, Mike brought John to the lab. John took one look and recognized Sherlock immediately.

From a few months ago when John had been held hostage by a serial killer outside a restaurant.

From Dieppe. 1942

From Vimy Ridge. 1917

From Gettysburg. 1863

From Cape Trafalgar 1805

From a meeting on the street, in a park, on the road in Vienna, Marseille, Florence, Constantinople, Rome, Athens.

From time after time after time.

It was inevitable and it was here and there was no turning back.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had met once again.

John knew he was screwed.


	2. 2 Tales by the Fire

**A/N: I received some encouraging reviews and PM's expressing some interest, so here goes. I hope this lives up to expectations, including mine:P. I have the third chapter mostly written, but I know I'll take it all apart again, blah. I really do have to do some regular work and there's other boring stuff in my life to be taken care of so it might be awhile before I get the next chapter up. Please let me know if I should carry on. I'm terribly insecure :) No, really.**

**This story is somewhat inspired by the writings of The Circus – check out her amazing story **_**Obvious Facts in the Guise of Reality**_** and RavenWriter89's stories **_**Heartbeats and Footfalls**_** and **_**Break My Spine, Burn My Pages**_**, truly beautiful works- if you haven't read please do- they are both far better writers than I am.**

**Also any glaring Canadianisms, break it to me gently and I apologize if I neglected my British heritage in any way, shape or form. **

**This chapter refers to Haven't Met You Yet. You might want to read if you haven't but they're only kind of connected. So I keep telling myself.**

**As usual it saddens me to no end to have to inform you that I do not own. Wish I did, wish I did, wish I did. (small temper tantrum). **

**That belongs to BBC, Arthur, Mark and Steve**

2. Tales by the Fire

_Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and adventures are the shadow truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes and forgotten._

_Neil Gaiman_

3 Months After the Meeting at Bart's

Two men stood at the remains of a crime scene. The two men were both tall, one with black messy hair, which curled over his eyes, the other had shorter hair shot with grey, people would call it distinguished. They both stood there, hands in their pockets, each trying to deny the craving for a cigarette. The grey haired one would give in by the end of the day. His wife had left him for the last time and he was faced with the bitter prospect of going home to an empty house. She'd taken the girls as well, something he was determined to fight, but not today.

They stood there in what could be interpreted as companionable silence. They were friends, but not best mates and it would take a fall for the darker haired one to even admit that they were, but the fall is another story and not important to this tale. They watched a third man, who was friend to both, something they would have no trouble admitting.

They were jaded with people and events and life, but only one was human enough, or admitted to be human enough to show it on his face. And yet despite their annoyance with all things that dealt with humanity, they were both admiring the calm and efficient, yet utterly humane way the third was talking to and patching up the young woman who was sitting in Lestrade's car. She was the latest and final victim of a serial rapist. The third man had in no uncertain terms, informed both men with the steely eye of the Captain that they could speak to the young victim, when he'd finished examining her and not a moment before. They knew better than to disobey that tone.

Both were taken by the odd contrast that was the other man. The infinite care and kindness he was showing the victim, coupled with the hard lines in his face when he killed the rapist who had been about to shoot Lestrade in the back. Doctor, soldier, friend, killer, hard, soft, quiet and contemplative, loud and raging, but only when Sherlock did something particularly stupid.

Haunted.

Lestrade, who was, in his own way, as observant about certain things as Sherlock, cocked his head to one side, shrugged a bit in his coat and opened his mouth to say something, but not before he was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Whatever it is you want to say, please get it out. Your thinking is far too loud and I can hear the wheels turning. It's most distracting."

"I was about to you arrogant sod," he said without malice. He paused gathering his thoughts, because what he wanted to say was something that he wouldn't normally speak of to the man beside him. Hell, it wasn't something he'd normally say to anyone. But it was something that had been pressing on him for more than a week. He eased in slowly.

"He's a puzzle, isn't he," he said nodding towards the doctor. "A, what you call it, a contradiction. Gentle as a kitten one minute, like with that girl there and calmly shooting someone in the back, no more bothered than swatting a fly," he paused as if unsure how to bring up the next bit. "You 'n me both know he shot that cabbie. I've seen him shoot since and not many could make that particular shot, 'cepting him." There was a snort from his left. "Oh, don't worry. I ain't saying nothing. That cabbie had it coming, far as I can see. I know when to look the other way." He paused again, and became even more thoughtful. "Do you remember the first time we saw him? That night, when we was chasing that Simons, the serial killer?" There was a barely perceptible nod beside him. That was an uncomfortable memory for Sherlock. He felt that he'd come close to loosing something that night, although he still had trouble identifying what that something was.

"That Simons bloke, he was afraid of Watson. Guy kills six people, eats five of them, grabs some unassuming bloke off of the street that he ends up being afraid of, that short arse over there. He," and he nods toward John "ever tell you what it was he said to Simons? What he whispered to him?"

Sherlock looks into the distance. He had never thought to ask John. He'd dismissed it after that night, because he didn't think he'd ever see John again. He'd been able to undelete it since, although it had taken time. It was easier to delete than to reinstate. He shook his head, still not speaking. It was hard voicing what he thought or didn't think of John, even to himself.

Lestrade shrugged. "Simons wouldn't say. He ended up killed in prison. Not many would put up with that bastard. Saved a trial." Lestrade rubbed his thumb against his lower lip, hesitating. Sherlock knew he had more to say so he uncharacteristically kept his mouth shut. He always craved more data about John and he was interested in Lestrade's point of view. He'd be loathed to admit it, but he valued the opinion of the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade sighed. There was no way in hell Sherlock would ever understand what he was about to say. He'd think he'd gone round the twist. But he'd been thinking it for a while now and wanted to voice some of his…unease was the only word he could think of when it came to how _strange_ John was.

_Oh hell, in for a penny…_He took a deep breath.

"Okay, not many I'd say this to. My gran, she was Irish and Greek. Good combination for stories, you know? Anyway she was always telling me stories about gods and fairies and shite. And you never knew if she didn't half believe them herself. Always said safer than sorry to believe. She would have looked that man over there in the eye and told you he was an old soul, but not as a compliment, mind. She would have thought him to have a tortured past. And I ain't talking bleedin' Afghanistan."

Lestarde waited for Sherlock to knock him down with a scathing comment, but it didn't happen. He simply turned to look at Lestrade with an unflinching gaze.

"And what would you say Detective Inspector," there was a trace of indulgent humour in Sherlock's tone.

"Me! Ah hell, I don't believe in any of that shite. I'm just saying," he looked at Sherlock. "But you need to look in that man's eyes, Sherlock. Really look. There's more going on in there than we will ever see or know. I know this doesn't make any kind of sense, but there's something different about the good doctor. Something that'd make my gran get out crystals and rowan wood 'n stuff, weird shite like that." He rubbed his hands through his hair. "Hell, I don't know what I'm talking about, just…just never mind me."

And with that he walked away from Sherlock and over to talk to John about the condition of the victim.

Sherlock stood there bemused, intrigued and scornful. The whole time Lestrade had spoken he had felt a shudder along his spine, like a cold finger running down. And for a moment he'd almost seen the truth of what he was saying. And then it left again and in its wake were the hard cold facts of science and intellect. He went over what Lestrade had said. Nonsense, really, but if you shifted through the bullshit there was some sort of truth there. If Sherlock were given to creative turns of phrase he would have acknowledged that John's eyes held a depth to them that was timeless and highly fascinating. There were hidden secrets in John's past and you could see glimmers of them in his eyes. He wouldn't say soul, because he didn't believe in a soul, or an afterlife. He had always assumed that John had seen things during the war that had left permanent markers on him, body and mind. That was one of the things that kept John fresh and not dull or boring to Sherlock. He knew there were secrets and puzzles to last a lifetime.

The man they had been talking about came up to his friend the detective and stood in front of him, hands in his pocket and head tilted to the side.

"Everything alright, then?" he asked, a frown appearing as he regarded the taller man. He looked at Sherlock with concern.

"What? Oh, no everything's fine. Brilliant in fact." And Sherlock clapped his hands together the mood dispelling with the sound of displaced air. "Hungry?" he asked his friend.

John smiled at him. "Starving."

"Chinese?"

"Thai."

And they went to grab something to eat.

oOo

Later that Day

Greg unlocked the door to his house, quiet, empty and dark and threw his keys in the bowl on the table in the hall. He hung up his coat and walked into his living room. There was a chill in the air and so he decided to light a fire. He had it good and crackling and he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat in the dark watching the flames, his thoughts the colour of the room. He lit the inevitable cigarette.

He mulled over the conversation he'd had with Sherlock today and didn't really know how he could have buggered it more. He didn't know how to explain to the detective what he was feeling. He didn't know how to explain to himself what he was feeling.

He was worried about John, but it was in a metaphysical sense. He was worried for his soul. Greg was not someone to believe in any of that crap yet here he was thinking about the fact that the doctor's soul could be a danger to Sherlock and to John himself.

"Need a bloody exorcist," he muttered, but that wasn't right either.

He wouldn't be thinking these thoughts at all if it weren't for a conversation he'd had with John one pub night. Sherlock never came, but John invariably did. It was good for him to get away from the lunatic he lived with and see normal people.

Greg and John stayed until the end out drinking everyone else.

They started on a discussion of school, which lead to family and religion and ended up talking about the existence of souls. John was surprisingly quiet during the latter part of the conversation, playing with the condensation on the side of his mug.

There was one point when he said something, however, that got Greg to thinking. And it wasn't so much what he said as how he said it.

"_My soul is darker than you will ever know, Greg. I've done and seen things over the long years that you can't even fathom."_

"_Long years? Shite John, you're only a few years younger than me."_

And John had looked at Greg and there was a hint of something there, dark and anguished and incredibly old. Older than a man of 36, even knowing some of the things Greg knew about John, had any right to. He got the feeling John wasn't talking about years so much as lifetimes. He sat back, his eyes wide and could feel the heaviness of the moment as something tangible. Then John chuckled and waved his hand and said

"_Don't listen to the ramblings of someone who's been drinking all night."_

It passed and Greg chalked it up to too many late nights and too much alcohol.

But he went home that night and thought about tales his gran used to tell and there was one in particular.

Greg wouldn't admit it to anyone not even Sherlock, but he was worried. And he didn't know what to do about it.

oOo

That Night

John sat in his chair reading. He wasn't ready to type up their latest case just yet. Too disturbing. He was trying to get the look of anguish from that poor girl out of his head. He hoped she'd get the help that she needed.

Sherlock was sitting across from him, pensive and moody as he plucked at the strings of his violin, not playing just contemplating. John mentally sighed. Now that the case was over he knew the moodiness would escalate. Sometimes he just wished they could have a quiet night once in a while. He snorted internally. _Thought the same thing in Afghanistan, too. Got lots of quiet after you got shot didn't you? Careful what you wish for._ He sobered at that thought.

The fire reflected off of Sherlock, adding strange glimmers to his hair and in his eyes, turning them from the usual grey/green/blue to golden and red. John shivered. He was trying not to stare at him over the top of his book. He had been very careful about what he thought about Sherlock when Sherlock was anywhere near by, but the picture of the detective sitting there, half in dark, half in light with the odd glow to his eyes, made him more irresistible than normal.

_Watch you thoughts, Watson. You know no good will come of it. _

He glanced back down to his book, noticing that he'd reread the same passage three times.

Sherlock plucked a particularly loud C and looked up at his flatmate.

"What was it you said to him?" he asked abruptly.

"Who? Lestrade?" not having a clue as to what the hell Sherlock could be talking about.

"Don't be dense. No. Back six months ago. The first night we met. Simons. What was it you said to him that scared him?"

John was use to Sherlock's rapid-fire thinking and odd train of thought even after only three months, but he was momentarily confused as to where this had come from. He blinked.

"Lestrade mentioned it today. He was asking if I knew what you'd said to him," Sherlock shrugged impatiently. "I'd never thought about it before and so now I'm asking."

John put down his book. He tipped his head back and folded his hands across his stomach. He blinked again and pursed his lips. The memory came back and he glanced over towards Sherlock, looking half embarrassed, half smug. He grinned that grin that does something funny to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's mouth went dry and he swallowed, schooling his expression.

"Oh that. Well…" he ran his hands through his short hair. "I told him I knew how to remove his heart while he was still living and I'd show it to him if he didn't cooperate."

Sherlock just looked at John and then he grinned that grin that does something funny to John's chest and makes John's mouth go dry.

"And do you?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

John smiled and nodded. "You never know when that might come in handy. And I think it was more the way I said it rather than the content." He chuckled and then he paused. "Course I didn't know at the time that Simons also knew how to do that and had in fact." Almost in a breath he became quiet and introspective. There was a longer pause. "Seen too many of those kind of people over the cent…years." He said it almost too quiet for Sherlock to hear and he wasn't quite sure he heard him correctly.

He looked at John. He'd heard the odd tone in John's voice. What did he mean by that? Did he mean…? What did he mean?

"John…"

John blinked coming back to himself and once again aware of his surroundings. "Sorry. What?'

Sherlock frowned.

"Never mind." He muttered. John must just be tired.

As if that was his cue to leave, John stood up and stretched and grinned easily at Sherlock.

"Well I'm off to bed. See you in the morning." He left for the stairs.

"Good night John."

Sherlock sat by the fire and brooded.

oOo

John climbed up to his bedroom, musing.

_That was close. _

He really needed to be on better guard as far as his tongue was concerned around Sherlock. It was already starting and there was no need to rush into it.

He slowly undressed and pulled on a worn t-shirt and ratty track pants.

Then he stood with his eyes closed facing south and whispered quiet words tainted with desperation, hoping to hold out a little bit longer.

"Oh Goddess, do with me what thou will: my will is thy will: I appeal not against thy judgements…"


	3. 3 Experiments

**A/N: I would like to acknowledge the influence of the story by Skyfullofstars entitled **_**Journeys End in Lovers Meeting.**_** I should have mentioned this in the last chapter, but I honestly forgot! (hangs head in shame). If you haven't read any of her work go read it, right now! No wait, read mine first and then read hers, because hers is so good you might not come back:)**

**Just to clarify I understand that John did not go for drinks with Mike before the incident at The Pool, he went over to Sarah's, but in this universe, they met and broke up before John moved in with Sherlock. **

**Warnings – some swearing, lots of angst and hints of bad things happening to John (poor John – it's so much fun to abuse him).**

**Don't own, wish I did.**

3. Experiments

_The true worth of an experimenter consists in his pursuing not only what he seeks in his experiment, but also what he did not seek. _

_Claude Bernard_

2 Weeks Later- starting just after The Great Game, but before Scandal in Belgravia

It really began for Sherlock on the cab ride home after The Pool. He had gone through such an overwhelming gamete of emotions that his hard drive of a brain was threatening to crash. His excitement of The Game, his absolute sureness that using the Bruce-Partington Plans was exactly what Moriarty wanted, seeing John come out of the change room and in that micro second of confusion and hurt and fear believing, actually believing that John was Moriarty, the horror of realization that John was the fifth pip, John's willingness to sacrifice himself for Sherlock, for _him_, when there was surely no one else who would do that, the emotional high and low of Moriarty leaving and coming back and leaving again and the knowledge that John meant far more to him than anybody else on the planet ever had or ever would. There was also the fear and unknown of what had happened to John during the missing hours between when he had left for drinks with Mike and when Sherlock had shown up at The Pool. He would have to make arrangements to plan a discussion with John some day but not now. Now he was almost dizzy with everything pressing down on him and all he wanted to do was go back to the flat and lie down, organize his chaotic thoughts and delete some of the emotional overload.

And that's when it happened.

John, who was sitting beside him in the cab, who had been lost in his own thoughts, had tentatively reached over and brushed Sherlock's hand in an attempt to get his attention. He had wanted to know if Sherlock was all right.

What happened to Sherlock was a jolt of electricity ran up his arm from the touch, he jerked slightly and turned to face John. He went back in memory to that first meeting, when he first really looked at John and a similar charge of energy had passed through them. There had been limitless possibilities open to them and Sherlock had dismissed it as lack of food or sleep.

Here it was again.

There was an unforeseen side effect that hadn't been noticed at the first meeting, quite simply because it had happened at the end of the case and his mind was blessedly quiet for the moment. This time, _oh this time_, his mind, since he had stopped using or without the bliss of a completed case, his mind quieted. Simply because the man beside him had reached out and touched his bare skin with his bare skin. Hand to hand. Simply because of that.

He also noted a marked increase in his own respiration and pulse. Was that important? Why was that important?

_Oh!_

Sherlock nodded sharply and turned away from John, which was an unbelievably difficult thing to do, but in the matters of emotions John was far more clever than he and he didn't want him to see his face while he contemplated this new and shining puzzle.

What had just happened? Could it be repeated? Did this mean there really was an attraction between the two of them? Sherlock had noticed that whenever John had smiled at him a certain way or giggled that infectious giggle, which oddly didn't seem out of place on his normally quiet face, and with the doctor's serious demeanor, his pulse rate increased slightly and his breathing became more erratic. He was positive if he'd been able to check a mirror that his pupils were dilated as well. He had also noted similar reactions in the doctor, although John seemed to be trying to either hide them or ignore them and Sherlock wasn't sure if that was because he was trying to avoid making things uncomfortable for the detective or if the doctor was embarrassed by an obvious attraction to a man.

It bore thinking about. Now that his mind was quiet he set aside a small space to contemplate this new information.

They arrived back at the flat; Sherlock raced ahead and left John to pay for the cab. By the time John had exited the cab and entered the building Sherlock was already hanging up his coat. John slowly made his way up the stairs, stiffness settling into his frame as the adrenalin crash came. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly and his leg was misbehaving, but that wasn't the worst. Not by a long shot.

John could just see Sherlock entering his bedroom as he came up the stairs. He hung up his coat and debated what to do next. He longed for a cuppa, but he felt the urgent need for a shower first. He felt grimy and unclean and thought that a long hot shower might be good for the ache in his muscles.

He called out to Sherlock "I'm just going to pop in the shower."

There was no reply from the detective, so he made his way into the bathroom.

20 minutes later feeling slightly better or at least a little more human, he stepped out of the shower. He slowly toweled himself off carefully, conscious of the new bruises and abrasions mapped on his skin. He looked down at his lean, muscular frame and picked out which were fist marks and which came from boots. He'd been lucky Moriarty had only wanted him marked and not hurt badly.

"_Can't have the pet collapse during the show, can we,"_ he'd hissed in his ear, just before…

Don't.

He shied away from the next memory. He'd deal with it when he was up in bed, where he could hide from the light.

He raised his hand and wiped the steam off of the mirror and looked into his eyes. They were tired and shadowed. That was hardly new. There was also confusion in them.

He had been sure from the moment of his kidnapping to Moriarty's second return that this was it. That tonight was going to be the end of it all again. But it hadn't.

He figured being rigged out in enough Semtex to bring down the building would constitute as being involved in the murder of Sherlock Holmes.

That's how it had to happen.

_Maybe they were having a reprieve?_

_No. _

_There must be something else at work here._

He shook his head. He'd been standing here too long lost in thought and he was beginning to get cold. He needed to get up to bed.

He realized at that moment his housecoat was upstairs.

_Damn it!_

He didn't want Sherlock to see the bruising and swelling.

He sighed.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and picked up his clothes. He supposed he could put his vest on. It would cover most of the marks. He was just too tired. He decided he'd take his chances. Maybe Sherlock had gone to bed or at least was in his room.

He slowly opened the door. He didn't hear any noises coming from the flat. He quickly made his way across the living room to the stairs.

"John?!"

He stopped and closed his eyes.

_Shit_

He heard Sherlock come behind him and around until he was standing in front of him.

Silence.

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was standing there his eyes raking over the smaller man's frame. His hand was raised as if to touch John's bruises or to ward off the knowledge of what might have happened to John during those missing hours.

John looked past Sherlock and stood stoically staring into space. Hoping to get this over quickly so he could go to bed.

"John," he whispered and John could hear the confusion and hurt in his tone. "I had no…what di… shit!'

John's eyes widened in surprise. It was rare for Sherlock to swear. He glanced at his flatmate and saw what Sherlock was trying to hide from him. Sherlock was livid. Anger was present in the clenched jaw and the flashing eyes. His hand was trembling in counterpart to John's own.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, really looked for the first time that night. What the detective saw there made his stomach clench. It had been a long time since he'd felt this much rage.

"What else?" the words came out around the clenched jaw.

"Sherlock…"

"What else did they, did **he** do to you?"

John felt a burn of shame creep up his cheeks. _It wasn't really as bad as all that,_ he thought. If Sherlock would let it go he could forget about it.

John looked down at the ground, thinking. There had been worse things in Afghanistan.

He felt Sherlock tentatively, carefully place his hand on John's face, raised his chin and gently forced John to look up. John took a deep breath.

"Mostly… mostly was what he said. Knew more about me than I did, about things that happened during the war. Just stuff really."

"John"

"Sherlock just let it go."

"No John."

John started shaking not from the memory of Moriarty licking up the side of his neck or the hard thrust of his tongue in his mouth, but from the words whispered in his ear of all the things Moriarty wanted to do to him, would do to him, but hadn't. Not yet, he said. He would save it if John survived the night for another time. It didn't matter that things like this and worse had happened in the past, the far past. He didn't always have an emotional connection to everything that happened…before. He really only remembered the things that happened between him and Sherlock.

"He used his mouth on you didn't he?" Sherlock was having difficulty maintaining coherent thought. He wanted to leave the flat this minute and hunt down Moriarty and kill him very slowly. The actions of the night and what had happened in the car had stirred up feelings of extreme protectiveness in the detective. He was furious that Moriarty had dared to lay hands on his John.

"Please Sherlock… I don't… I can't do this right now. It wasn't as bad as you think. Just … just, " he heaved in a lung full of air. " Please…I'll deal with it my own way. Just not right now."

He watched as Sherlock made a conscious effort to swallow his anger. John was stunned to realize that this was for him, both the anger and the hiding of it. Sherlock was making an effort to clamp down on it so John wasn't feeling any more uncomfortable than he already was.

Sherlock lowered the hand that was hovering over John's chest and slowly nodded.

"Get up to bed. I'll bring you some tea and some painkillers."

"Sherlock…"

"Shut up, John. Listen to someone else for a change," he smiled at John, but it was a sad smile.

John nodded, giving in to the craving for a little comfort and care that both of them seem to need.

He left the room and made his way slowly up the stairs.

He threw his clothes and the towel in a pile on the floor and grabbed his track pants and t-shirt. He was too tired to tidy up. He'd deal with it in the morning.

He climbed into bed and pulled the duvet over top of himself and waited.

A few minutes later he heard Sherlock climbing up the stairs and there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Sherlock came in carefully, carrying a tray that held two mugs, a bottle of ibuprofen and a book. He'd changed into his pajamas as well and was wearing the blue silk housecoat.

He set the tray down on the bedside table, handed John a mug and opened the bottle and upended two pills into John's hand.

"What's the book for?" John asked, swallowing the pills.

Sherlock frowned at the book and said, "There is a high probability that after tonight's events you will experience some difficulty in sleeping through the night. I expect you to have nightmares and I thought perhaps some company might help to, if not drive them off, at least provide you with some security. If you know someone's watching out for you then perhaps they won't be so bad."

He glanced at John and John was slightly amused that Sherlock, although he seemed a bit embarrassed by this display of sentiment, was also a bit smug at his conclusion.

John decided to forgo teasing him as it really was a very nice gesture and he was quite touched at the thought.

"All right," he simply said.

Sherlock prepared to sit down in the chair beside the bed.

John shook his head. "Get into bed you idiot. You might as well be comfortable."

Sherlock looked surprised and then nodded and climbed in beside John. He opened his book and looked at the doctor. "Will the light bother you?" he asked.

"No," said John " I can sleep pretty much anywhere and have, in far worse conditions."

With that John rolled over and fell asleep rather quickly.

Sherlock didn't read much of the book. He spent the night watching John and guarding him from nightmares.

oOo

The next morning found John waking up to an empty bed. Sherlock had left at some point. He was grateful for the taller man's presence during the night. The nightmares hadn't stayed away completely, but they hadn't been as intense as they could have been. He had a vague memory of a hand running through his hair and someone whispering that it was okay.

He wasn't sure if that was an actual memory or wishful thinking.

He slowly got dressed and tidied up the pile of clothes from last night. He was stiff and sore this morning.

He made his way downstairs to find Sherlock up and dressed and reading the paper.

"Morning," John said, stifling a yawn.

"Morning," said Sherlock from behind the paper.

"Coffee?" John asked.

"Please."

John didn't notice that Sherlock's eyes followed him into the kitchen. When he came back in with coffee, they carried on as if nothing had transpired the night before.

It stayed like that for most of the week until Lestrade called with a new case, just in time to prevent Sherlock from climbing the walls.

There were two noticeable differences in the interaction between them after The Pool. One was that Sherlock tended to hover over John more. Not a great believer in personal space to begin with, he was practically joined at the doctor's hip. He was reluctant to leave his side for extended periods of time and if they had to be separated he sent frequent texts to John. He never came out and said he was checking on John, to make sure something untoward hadn't happened, but John knew that was the reasoning behind it.

The other thing was that Sherlock felt the need to touch John more frequently, usually his good shoulder or his hand and only ever briefly, but it happened time and again. Again John didn't mind, although he had to concentrate on clamping down on his heart's need to lurch in anticipation every time he felt contact with the detective.

John came to the conclusion that Sherlock was feeling oddly protective of the doctor since The Pool and the revelations at the conclusion the incident. Which was true.

Sherlock would probably never tell him was that he was conducting a series of experiments. He was trying to determine if close proximity to John would a) help his mind clear and focus his thinking and b) was he sexually attracted to John and inversely was John sexually attracted to him.

So far the conclusion was a resounding yes on all points.

Sherlock decided it was time to glean further data.

oOo

John came down stairs one morning to find Sherlock dressed in nothing but his pajama pants, his chest bare and gleaming in the sun from the newly installed windows. He was playing the violin and his eyes were shut as he concentrated on pulling every emotion from the strings. John didn't recognize the tune, but it was heartfelt and beautiful. He stood there listening and trying very hard not to stare at Sherlock's bare chest.

Sherlock concluded the piece, put away the violin and bow and turned to face his flatmate. He cocked his head to one side and John felt his eyes as they swept him from top to bottom. That did not help him try to get his racing heart under control. Sherlock smirked a little and made to walk past John on his way to the kitchen. He stopped and looked deeply into John's eyes and said "Good morning John."

John swore that Sherlock's voice was deeper than usual and it did something to his stomach muscles.

"M…M…Morning," he stammered and attempted to get his breathing under control. _This is not good_, thought John.

Sherlock meanwhile jotted some notes down in the journal in his head about John's reaction to certain stimuli.

The following week continued in much the same vein. Sherlock's touches, before had been light and hesitant, were now firm and lingering. He'd come up behind John when John was either sitting in his chair or at a crime scene and he'd lowered his voice and whisper in John's ear, his breath tickling the outer rim. He insisted John remove his shirt at one point to check on John's healing wounds. He skimmed his hands over John's torso, his eyes darting around. He paused over John's pectorals and brushed lightly over his nipples. John thought he might hyperventilate.

John looked at him and said,

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock had simply smiled, slowly, languorously and looked deeply into John's eyes, he leaned closer and spoke directly into John's ear. "I'm just checking to see if you are all better?" and then he tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips against the cheek in a very chaste kiss that didn't feel chaste. And he walked away while John stood there, his brain misfiring. There was an added benefit to his discomfort over Sherlock's examination. The touch of his hands erased any lingering taint from Moriarty, as did the kiss.

Sherlock was very pleased with the results of his conclusions.

What Sherlock didn't know was that John was becoming desperately worried.

oOo

1 Week Later

John was becoming more morose. His resolve was cracking and Sherlock's antics over the last week hadn't helped. The detective had been spending his time doing some rather bizarre things, even more bizarre than usual, even for Sherlock. It seemed that his flatmate was either trying to drive him mad or was simply conducting a series of experiments that would ensure in his early demise.

His biggest worry was he knew where this was all leading; he simply couldn't recall it happening this way. He knew he was on the cusp of a very black hole and he would willingly go over the edge for this man.

As much as Sherlock scoffed at John's obtuseness when presented with evidence that to Sherlock was maddenly clear, Sherlock was just as obtuse when it came to John's own observational skills.

There was no way Sherlock could possibly know that John had been observing Sherlock's behavior far longer than the detective would have believed possible. He easily recognized the signs that Sherlock was becoming more attracted to the short doctor with the bad shoulder and the dodgy leg.

He also knew it had been inevitable from the first day they had met.

Even then, even with Sherlock walking away from him that night, which John now knew was Sherlock's way of dismissing something he didn't believe in, John knew it was only a matter of time before they'd meet again.

He'd once or twice tried avoiding meeting the person he was tied to. It didn't work. It only postponed the inevitable.

That was the madness that John lived in, had lived, Goddess forbid, would continue to live in until this whole mess that his choices had set in motion was finally cleared and swept away.

Sometimes the weight of the years was so great that John thought he would suffocate under it. Most of the time he was able to dismiss the memories. He was able to box them up and forget about them for a quiet, few, precious moments. This lifetime had been particular pleasant as far as things went, barring his time in Afghanistan. He usually met his counter part much earlier during a lifetime and it usually ended much more quickly. Usually. Not always. There were times when he went almost as long before the wheel turned and the cosmos lined up and the fates aligned or whatever cheesy metaphor you wanted to use, happened. Or there were times like at Gettysburg, when he simply looked across enemy lines and saw him and that was it over, quickly and always, always, always deadly. That was part of the curse they lived under. They met, they usually felt some attraction, someone was betrayed and someone was killed, then the other died, end of that story, but not end of their story. It would just begin again and again and again.

And it was John's fault.

He had hoped, really hoped that maybe this time he could be forgiven and it would end well.

There was something different this time. There was something new this time. He wasn't sure if it was because he had decided the last few times he'd started to become a better person and started to erase some of the black marks on his soul. Or because he'd done some research in his teens and decided that after cursing the gods, he'd start praying to them, asking for their will, for _their_ forgiveness. The gods he prayed to weren't known for forgiveness, but it had happened occasionally. He mostly concentrated on the one who had been the crucible to his catalyst. He prayed she would accept it, but bowed to the knowledge that she would or she wouldn't. If she even still existed. It had been a long time since the days of temples and sacrifices and who knew what happened to a god when they had been ignored for millennia.

And there was the spiral into futility once again. Maybe there was no end. Maybe it was eternal damnation.

Sherlock came up to John as he was sitting in his chair. He knew he'd become more agitated over the last week, ever since Sherlock had started his series of experiments. As someone who's own black moods threatened to engulf the entire flat, he knew that it would take a lot to snap John out of whatever it was that was bothering him.

He found he wasn't sorry for causing this reaction in John. He was becoming increasingly fascinated by the doctor. His thinking was that John just needed to come to terms with the fact that they were attracted to one another. Sherlock felt he couldn't find a more perfect partner.

He decided to try something new to help John take the next step.

He approached John's chair. He knelt in front of it and laid his hands on John's thighs and leaned forward.

He said John's name, modulating the tone, so his voice deepened to a rich, dark chocolate, almost smoky.

John looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back. He saw something in John's eyes that held a glimmer of what Lestrade had been trying to tell him weeks ago.

Something there was dark and ancient and anguished, something that should not exist in someone as young as John and it wasn't simply his time in Afghanistan. It was more than that. Lestrade had been correct. And Sherlock, who did not believe in the metaphysical, finally recognized that there might possibly be some such thing as a soul, because he could see it, see it in John's eyes.

Now here's the remarkable thing. Most people, ordinary people, people even like the good and brave Detective Inspector, would be afraid of the darkness present in John's eyes. Not Sherlock. He recognized it as a compliment to his own darkness and he didn't run from it. He embraced it with a thrill.

John reached out and did the thing he'd wanted to since that first night. That he was compelled to do. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair and felt the silkiness of his curls. He continued to frown at them as he lifted and weighed each curl in his fingers as if they were more precious than gold. He looked at Sherlock as he moved his hand down to cup his exquisite face, his touch tentative, with the hint of a promise of ownership. A face designed to tempt even angels.

He cleared his throat and he spoke, his voice husky and rough. Sherlock's pulse sped up and his heart lurched in his chest.

He wanted this, he wanted this in a way that made the cocaine and heroine lust seem tame by comparison.

"Sherlock, if we go down this road," he cleared his throat, because he knew what was going to happen next because it had already happened a dozen, a thousand times and it was hard to control the rush of blood in his veins as he anticipated the moment, but he had to say this, he had to at least attempt a warning. "If we go down this road, there's no turning back." And John's eyes looked so sad and lost that Sherlock could already feel cracks develop in his heart as it prepared itself to break, a heart he had just discovered actually existed.

John leaned forward and ghosted his lips over Sherlock's perfect, perfect ones and he said, "Believe me when I tell you there is nothing but pain and hurt down there. It never ends well, for either of us."

The roar in Sherlock's ears drowned the content of John's words and even if he had heard the part of it never ending well he would have dismissed it and committed to this course of action regardless.

"John," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I don't care. Shut up and kiss me."

And John did. And it was more than Sherlock had believed possible and the roar became louder and he was drowning in John's lips and touch and tongue.

And it was beautiful and glorious and more than he had ever anticipated.

He closed the notebook in his head, the one he'd been using to jot down both his and John's reactions. It was a good thing they had this time together because it would be all that Sherlock could do to keep them alive over the next little while, let alone worry about the results of an experiment, the conclusion of which, if he had known, had been forgone from the start.


	4. 4 Confession

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews and follows and favourites. It is such a wonderful feeling! Please, if you like it, review. It is very gratifying to know someone has read your work!**

**Thanks to CKTG, bbybyrd, mixed array, houseriz, ThisDayWillPass, NotQuiteBerserk, Skeptikitten, serafina allende, for following along and some lovely reviews from some of you and especially potterlocked1867 (Yay – fellow Canadian!) you know why!**

**Dark and difficult times ahead for John and Sherlock to paraphrase Dumbledore or J.K. Rowling if you prefer.**

**Oh and smut.**

**The song Moriarty sings (Yes! I know! Right?) is **_**Barque in the Harbour **_**written by Gerald Campbell from Branch, Newfoundland and performed by Great Big Sea from the album **_**Sea of No Cares**_**. Don't own. Well, I own the album, not the rights! Had to remove the lyrics – which was unbelievably hard for this chapter – but go listen to the song during first part – also removed quote I used at beginning for same reason – sigh!**

**All mistakes belong to me!**

4. Confession

_Quote from Evita – You Must Love Me – Andrew Lloyd Webber_

Moriarty was spinning in his swivel chair. He closed his eyes and sat back, feeling the world spin. He was singing a little song as the chair spun round and round. A looooove song. It was sad and romantic. It was a song he'd heard only once before. But he remembered it. He remembered everything. Just. Like. The. Great. Sherlock. Holmes. Everything, everything, everything. He was about half way through the first verse. He liked this song because it was about a young sailor, which is not quite like a soldier, but he couldn't think of any songs about soldiers named John. He was sure there were. He just didn't know them. He sang louder as he got to the part with sweet, sweet Johnny's name. There was a section in the song where the lyrics talked about a lonesome place where no one could see the young lovers.

_Where nobody could see Johnny boy, wouldn't you like that? Where nobody can see._

He sang the chorus with great delight, putting feeling into the words, especially about squeezing the young lover's hand.

He was sooo interested in Sherlock. Sherlock took up most of his thinking. He was intriguing and brilliant and just like him. They could be so good together. And diverting. Nobody can be bored with Sherlock. They were meant for each other.

Ahhhh, but there was something about dear, sweet, Doctor John. He had surprised Jim. Nobody ever surprised him. He really didn't deserve to be with Sherlock, to be his pet doctor. Sherlock was too smart for poor, ordinary Johnny.

BUT, but, but, but…

A shudder went through his frame.

He _was_ yummy. If he was going to be honest with himself and you should be honest with yourself if no one else, the doctor made Jim all hot and bothered.

He thought about having the doctor in his grasp again.

Squeezing, squeezing, _squeezing my hand._

He remembered the taste of John's skin and the excitement of sticking his tongue in the doctor's mouth and forcing him to take it in his mouth.

Sweet, sweet Johnny.

There was something about the dear, ordinary doctor.

_Do you dream of me Dear Johnny Boy? Am I with you in the night when you are trying to sleep? Whispering in your ear? I sure hope so! I'm thinking of you._

He would have to make plans to meet with him again. Time to fulfill some of those promises he'd made to the doctor. Maybe he would prove to be as exciting as Sherlock, but in a different way. He'd have his fun and his fill with sweet, yummy John Watson and then once the doctor was out of the way he could have Sherlock all to himself.

Yes indeed.

oOo

Sherlock was lying with his head on John's chest, his eyes closed, listening to John's heartbeat and breathing as John slept. He smiled slightly, thinking they were the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard. John's arm was lying wrapped across Sherlock's back, relaxed.

The detective thought about the night they'd spent, thinking back to the first real kiss.

He felt John's sadness and desperation in that kiss, but there was hunger and yearning, some fear perhaps and something else there as well. Sherlock felt he should be pleased that he'd been able to identify most of those emotions, since he buried enough of his own, but like any unsolved puzzle, it frustrated him to not be able to identify the last one.

He replayed the memory.

John's first tentative brushing of his lips.

The shiver that went up Sherlock's spine.

John's hand cupping his face.

Leaning into each other and both at the same time clutching at the other's hair, stroking, their mouths meeting.

Stroking his fingers through John's hair and thinking it was slightly longer than John normally liked to wear it, but he enjoyed the sensation because he could run his fingers through it more easily, but if John insisted on cutting it, it would be acceptable because he could then compare the difference, maybe shorter hair would feel as wonderful and silky in his hands.

"_Sherlock", John had said, "You're thinking too much."_

He'd pulled back and grinned a little at John, slightly sheepish.

John had stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet and led him into Sherlock's room.

They had undressed each other rather quickly, hands shaking with desire, stealing kisses in between. Once divested of their clothes they had stood and looked. Sherlock had had glimpses of John naked before, particularly his chest. Two men living together it's unavoidable. And except for the two times after The Pool when he'd really looked at John's chest, once in anger at what had been done and once ostensibly to check to see how John's injuries were healing, he really hadn't paid much attention to his flatmate physical attributes until this moment.

He reached his hand out to trace the exit wound on the front of John's left shoulder. He surmised there would be an entry wound on the back, presumably smaller. He glanced at John with a raised eyebrow, inquiring. The doctor knew that Sherlock needed to have information about everything. This was just one more piece of the John Watson puzzle. He took Sherlock's hand and guided it to the shoulder in answer. He kept his hand on top of Sherlock's hand as he felt the scar tissue. John shivered under his touch, watching Sherlock's face. Sherlock had leaned forward and tentatively kissed the damaged skin. John had closed his eyes, moaned and leaned into Sherlock. Sherlock's other arm reached around John's waist and pulled him closer, skin to skin. John had let go of Sherlock's hand and raised both to clutch at the detective's shoulders. Sherlock kissed harder and then traced the edges with his tongue. John reached up and kissed Sherlock's beautiful, long, white neck.

Somehow or another they'd ended on the bed, John on top of Sherlock, leaning on his forearms, kissing him, his hands back in Sherlock's hair like an addict, while Sherlock ran his musician hands up and down John's back, scratching lightly with his nails.

John moved his mouth to leave a trail of hot, burning kisses along Sherlock's chin and jaw and then travelled to his neck and down towards his chest. Sherlock panted as John reached the base of his throat and moved along his collarbone, sucking and nibbling lightly. He then reached Sherlock's nipples and John's clever tongue swept one bud and then the other until they swelled, sending more shivers throughout Sherlock's long frame as John scraped his teeth across the sensitive skin. He gasped. John raised his head and grinned a little grin at Sherlock. The detective's heart thudded painfully in his chest. He wasn't sure if it would stop or not, he was so overcome with the intensity of his longing for the doctor. His hands of their own accord had returned to stroke through John's hair. John travelled further down to Sherlock's belly button, where that marvelous tongue dipped in and plundered and his teeth nipped the edges. John's fingers were brushing lightly, teasingly along his sides almost to the point of tickling, but so very erotic. Sherlock's moan was deep and long and travelled through John's frame. Neither felt they could wait any longer. They had an excess of built up emotions and basic lust that wasn't going to wait for their first exploration of each other. John reached down and took him in his mouth warm and wet. He had had to barely touch him when Sherlock came, shouting John's name. He felt John kiss his way back up his stomach as he lay there spent. John reached his mouth again and he kissed him deep and long and hard their tongues mingling and Sherlock could taste John and himself and he clutched and kneaded the muscles in John's back. He reached around and grasped John in his hand and John was as close to coming as Sherlock had been and it didn't take long for him to collapse across Sherlock's chest.

They lay wrapped in each other's arms and legs, sprawled across the bed; Sherlock realized he'd never been happier than this moment. It was a strange and heady feeling. He was acknowledging how he felt about the doctor, a glimmer of which had tugged on him from their very first meeting. His heart was beating rapidly. He could feel John smiling against his chest as he continued to brush the taller man's skin. He felt the moment when John slipped into sleep and he gently rolled the man over on his back and laid his head on his chest, his leg flung over the shorter man's hip, his upper arm pulling the doctor in closer, wanting to listen to the sounds of life coming from the doctor, from the new centre of the universe.

As he finished remembering, lying there with the images of last night's love making playing in his head, Sherlock wished John would awaken. He turned his head slightly and began kissing and nuzzling John's chest. John murmured something in his sleep and snuggled closer to Sherlock. Sherlock ran his hands over his back and John woke up, blinking at Sherlock and he smiled that beautiful John smile and Sherlock realized what the emotion was he couldn't identify in John's kiss.

It was love.

He had never really loved anyone before. Not like this, with wanting everything and anything to do with John. He smiled back and John pulled himself closer and they spent the rest of the night exploring each other's bodies. Afterwards Sherlock fell asleep wrapped in his lover's arms. He could think those words without cringing or without shame, for he felt the emotion swelling through his chest.

The sun coming up found them like this, sated and slumbering.

oOo

The Next Day

Lestrade sat at his desk looking at the two men sitting across from him as he showed them photos of an older crime scene from several years back. They had just been to a fresh crime scene that morning that had similarities to the one in the photo. Lestrade had been a Sargent at the original scene and had remembered it when he'd been called into the latest one. He'd called Sherlock and John to meet him and then brought them back to the station to look at the older photos and evidence. Lestrade wanted Sherlock's opinion to see if the scenes could be related.

While Sherlock pored over the photos and John took notes deciphered from Sherlock's muttering, Lestrade watched the two men.

_Something's different._

Lestrade had not become Detective Inspector because he was stupid. He had good observational skills, especially when it came to human interaction. He needed to. He had watched Sherlock dance around John the last few weeks, the touching and whispering.

This morning they were both more relaxed, but somehow their bodies seemed to be more aware of the other. There were still little touches here and there, but it wasn't just Sherlock touching John. It was reciprocal. There were looks as well, subtle, but lingering. John seemed to be on the verge of blushing every time Sherlock looked at him.

Greg narrowed his eyes.

_They've been shagging._

He wasn't surprised, but it did concern him. Again.

_It's started._

Sherlock got up. He wanted to speak to the other officers who had been at the original scene to see if they remembered anything. Lestrade gave him the name of two officers and said he'd be along in a minute.

"John can I speak with you?"

John looked up, surprise evident in his face at the strange tone in Greg's voice.

"Sure." To Sherlock he said, "I'll be along soon," this was to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at John in a way that made Greg feel as if he were watching something private as the detective left.

John stood looking at Greg, feeling as if he'd misbehaved and been called to task for it. He tilted his head to the side and tried to figure out what he'd done to earn that headmaster look from Lestrade.

Greg remained silent, looking at the shorter man, wondering how to start this particular conversation. He'd blown it with Sherlock earlier; he didn't want to do that now. There was too much at stake.

He had a feeling John wouldn't misunderstand him, even if he didn't admit to knowing what Greg was talking about.

He didn't speak. He pulled out a pad of paper and wrote down two names. He pulled the sheet off and handed it to John.

John looked at the names on the paper, blood draining rapidly from his face. Greg was wondering if he'd have to ask John to sit down, when it seemed as if the doctor had pulled himself together, at least on the surface.

He could see John's eyes darting back and forth, thinking,

John glanced up at the DI, back down again and then he looked straight at Greg.

"How could you possibly know," he said, his voice calm, but with stress in his eyes.

Greg cleared his throat. He'd been prepared to have John scoff at the words or at least pretend to misunderstand. Not acknowledge them. That was slightly scarier. It meant it could be true.

"My Gran. She was… different…open. Told tales from the past like they were real. Didn't know I'd believe them, 'til I met you."

John frowned. He started to say something, hesitated and then Greg could see he changed his mind and said something else instead.

"No one knows this story. It's lost. It's a lost tale from those days."

"Yeah, that's what Gran said. But somehow or other she knew the story. That and the Irish version, both lost. She knew a few more as well, but I expect you might know some she didn't," feeling more comfortable with this than he thought he would. Maybe it was John's calm acceptance.

"John, I don't quite know what to say here. We're talking about impossible things and I'm not sure what to do," he cleared his throat. "I did try to warn Sherlock, lot of good that did."

John paled again. This time there was fear in his voice. "You told Sherlock?"

Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Fat lot of good that did. He thought I was barking. Did a half arse job of it and couldn't say half the things I wanted, so you're still safe. But John," and he winced. John was his friend. He'd like to think a good friend, despite all the strangeness. "You've got to tell him. And," he took a deep breath "you've got to stop doing what ever it is you two are doing."

John blushed and then looked at Greg.

"There's no stopping it Greg. I can't. It's been set in motion and there never was a point where I could turn back. As to telling Sherlock," and now it was his turn to take a deep breath, "I tried warning him, but telling him?" he shook his head ruefully. 'There is no way. I can't." he saw the look Greg was giving him. "You don't understand. I don't mean can't as in I don't want to, I mean can't as it is impossible. I physically cannot tell him. It's all part and parcel of the madness I live with." He paused. "That doesn't mean you can't tell him. I think that might work. " He looked so sad. Then he shrugged. "Don't know really. This has never happened before. But there's been a lot with this lifetime that hasn't happened before." He glanced back down at the paper in his hands. He calmly folded it and put it in his pocket.

Greg started to ask what he meant by that when Sherlock thrust open the door and stuck his head in.

"John," he said imperiously. "We have to go. I must get to Bart's and look at the evidence before the imbeciles that work there botch it."

"Just a second, please." He looked at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock huffed, but he waved his hand as if to say carry on.

John looked back at Greg. "Why don't you come round tonight and we'll see if we can have that talk." Greg looked surprised. John leaned forward, closer to Greg, hoping Sherlock wouldn't hear.

"I know you are trying to protect him, that's why it's okay. You have to understand, Greg, I've been doing this a really long time. Maybe I'm tired of the whole thing. Maybe I'm simply too tired to pretend anymore." And with that John turned and followed Sherlock out of the door.

Greg sat back at his desk and stayed there deep in thought until Sally came in with paper work to sign.

oOo

Later That Day

During the cab ride home from Bart's John was very quite. He sat looking out of the window, not really seeing anything out there.

"John," Sherlock said, reaching over and stroked John's hand. "You're very quite. Is…are…we're…our relationship…we're good, right?" John turned and smiled softly at Sherlock's phrasing. He looked at Sherlock and his smile broadened. The hesitation in Sherlock's voice was endearing. He knew the detective would have some difficulty in coming to terms with their new relationship and the new feelings and he knew that Sherlock was a great deal more insecure than people would guess.

John reached over and gently touched Sherlock's chin. He reached up with his thumb and traced the detective's lower lip. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock lightly, where his jaw met his ear.

John whispered in his ear, "We are good Sherlock, I'm just tired," Sherlock felt relief and desire sweep through him at the same time. He didn't always know what to do when it came to emotions and this was new territory for him. He relied on John to guide him.

John pulled back slightly and looked seriously at Sherlock.

"Lestrade's coming over tonight, there's something he needs to tell you. It may be something that's hard to understand, but I want you to have an open mind. Can you do that? For me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at John. He was deducing him, but for some reason he couldn't read what John wasn't telling him. He could always read John. Sherlock felt the beginnings of distress.

_There was something wrong with John. Something Lestrade knows._

He quickly thought back to the conversation he'd had with the DI about John. He'd been trying to tell him something then. But none of it made sense. Lestrade was talking about fairy tales and his grandmother, for God's sake.

John watched as Sherlock processed what John had said. He knew that Sherlock would be upset, because he didn't have enough data to figure it out and he knew he'd jump to the wrong conclusion.

_Yeah, because Sherlock's going to immediately think. 'Oh John's under a curse and I am too.' Right._

"Sherlock don't worry. It will be okay."

Sherlock frowned, because this time he could tell that John didn't believe it would be okay. But he nodded anyway.

The cab pulled up to the Baker Street flat. Sherlock got out and John paid the driver. They went in and up the stairs.

After hanging up their coats, John turned to Sherlock and tilted his head to one side, hands in his pockets. He was thinking the detective needed to be distracted until Greg came over. He smirked at Sherlock.

"Lestrade's not going to be here for a few hours. We really should find something to do to pass the time."

Sherlock looked at him and quirked an eyebrow.

"My dear Doctor, whatever did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking we really didn't get very far last night. Perhaps there's something new we could try."

Sherlock blinked and then quickly closed the space between them. He wrapped his long arms around John and pulled him to his chest.

He breathed into John's ear. "John Watson, you are brilliant." And he kissed him.

oOo

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street and let himself in. He climbed the stairs to the flat not looking forward to this conversation. As much as he believed in the truth of this story, there was a great deal of doubt there as well.

_Maybe I've finally gone crazy._

But he thought about John's reactions to his knowing about this story and it grounded him. Not in a particularly comforting way, mind.

The door to the flat was open and he made his way in. John was sitting in his usual chair, in jeans and a t-shirt. His feet were bare. Lestrade couldn't remember a time when he'd seen John's feet bare and not wearing one of those ridiculous jumpers.

Sherlock came in from the direction of his bedroom wearing pajamas and a housecoat.

_Right. They've been shagging. Great. Not embarrassed. Nope._

"So Lestrade, John says you have something to tell me," Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up. "He says he can't but you can and I must say all this is rather intriguing. And a bit overly dramatic."

John snorted at that last comment and muttered something like " 'cause you've never been dramatic, ever." Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of fondness and irritation and the combination on his face would almost be funny, if Greg hadn't felt that they were dealing with something so serious.

John looked at Greg and said "Beer or tea?" Lestrade looked at him "Beer. Definitely. And keep them coming. Don't know how'im gonna get through otherwise."

John went into the kitchen and returned with a beer in each hand. He looked at Sherlock, but he just waved his hand dismissively. There was something peculiar happening and he wasn't going to be distracted. John handed Greg the beer and then stood in front of the fire, facing away from Greg and Sherlock. It looked liked he was ignoring the two men, but Greg could tell he was listening.

He sat on the couch and faced Sherlock and he took a deep breath.

"Okay. Now you need to listen and not interrupt, 'cause this is a bit of a story and you're gonna think I'm cracked, but I can only get through if you don't interrupt, Okay? Questions at the end, I promise you'll have a mitt full."

Sherlock frowned, crossed his arms and nodded.

"Okay here's the story I know told by my Gran. I've been thinking about it for a while now and I've been wondering about something too. John said when we talked this morning that this is a lost tale. I've been thinking hard and I kinda remember Gran saying once that nobody really knows this story 'cept us. Her 'n me. Kinda past down in her family." John turned his head slightly at that bit of news and then turned back to stare at the fire.

"So here's how it goes. Long ago back in ancient Greece, there was this warrior, name of Acrisias. He was favoured by the gods, in particular Athena, goddess of wisdom and courage, but also righteous warfare and strategy and math and the arts and a bunch of other shite, that I don't remember. Anyway this Acrisias was a very smart and very brave military leader and he won all kinds of important wars and protected his people and Athena was impressed with him and gave him her protection. So anyway this guy could have his pick of women, but he only wanted this one, I can't remember her name…"

"Eleri," John said quietly from the fireplace. Greg noticed he hadn't touched his beer. He was gripping the bottle tightly and his knuckles were white.

"Yeah, that's it. 'pparently she wasn't available. Dedicated to another goddess, Hecate. She was a goddess of magic and herb lore and crossroads. Eleri was to be one of her acolytes, I think you call them, and she had to be pure, you know a virgin. But that didn't stop Acrisias. He said he loved her and wanted her so he made her fall in love with him and then after he was done with her, he left her for some guy, Parimedes was his name. He was his best mate or something. When Eleri found out she called down Hecate's wrath on him and she cursed Acrisias, told him he'd never love anyone again and that he'd carry it through all his lifetimes until he atoned. And if he loved anyone they'd die in tragedy or something. Perimedes ran away when all this was going on, didn't want to be cursed I guess. So apparently Hecate shows up and makes the curse stick and Eleri kills herself and Acrisias dies like in the next war or something. But Gran always said that he's still cursed and that there are stories throughout about this tragic love he's supposed to carry. And Gran said 'cause of something to do with our family that I'd recognize him or at least I'd recognize the curse." He stopped speaking and looked over at John and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at Lestrade. There was no expression on his face and his eyes glimmered slightly in the firelight. There was an excruciatingly long pause.

"So you believe," _Ah there it is. The sneer._ "That this story is true. And what," he huffed "John and I are somehow involved in this… this…" and he waved his hand around "this story? Facts Lestrade, I deal in facts not fairytales and suppositions." He crossed his arms and looked to his partner for support. John didn't say anything just leaned against the mantle.

"Oh come on John, you can't seriously believe this absurd tale? What I suppose I'm suppose to be this Perimedes fellow and you were the big bad Acrisias. Just cause he was a soldier and broke some girl's heart, you think that's like you." Sherlock got up with a swirl of housecoat and went to stand by John. Sherlock was trying very hard not to be angry with him. He was using anger to hide the fact that there might be something very wrong with John's mental state and it frightened him. Not that he'd admit that he was frightened. He was also confused as to why Lestrade was playing along.

John put down the untouched bottle on the mantle and turned to Sherlock. His face was drawn and the look of desolation and sorrow had returned. Greg felt a lump form in his throat. All he had to do was look at him to know John believed this story about a curse.

John's next words surprised the other two men.

"No Sherlock, I don't believe you were Perimedes. You weren't." He cleared his throat. "You were Acrisias." He looked down at his feet, his shoulders hunched.

Greg spoke up. "But that doesn't make sense. You're the cursed one. I recognized you. And you can't be Perimedes. He ran away."

John smiled bitterly at Greg.

"Oh I'm cursed alright. And I brought it on myself." He paused. "There was another person there. You're forgetting someone."

They both looked at him.

"I wasn't Acrisias and I wasn't Perimedes. I was Eleri."

There was a stunned silence in the flat.

"What, can't be a girl? Souls don't have gender. I've been men and women. So have you Sherlock, probably you have too, Greg. I wouldn't know. I only remember Sherlock."

"But why can't I remember," And John would have laughed at the petulant tone in Sherlock's voice if he hadn't felt so horrible.

"Thought you didn't believe?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't," he muttered darkly.

"I remember because it's part of _my_ curse. Greg's missing some of the story, something he doesn't know. After Hecate showed up and cursed Acrisias, Athena came. She was not vey happ…," he cleared his throat. He felt dizzy all of a sudden. He wiped his brow and tried to continue. "She was angry…"

"You alright mate?" asked Greg

John was looking very pale and he was sweating. He shook his head to clear it.

Sherlock moved closer and reached him just as John's eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he collapsed to the floor.

**A/N: Sorry – I'm a little bit evil. Oh and you won't find that story anywhere. I made it up.**

**Also if you post a review (because you are just that nice!), please don't give anything away! Thanks!**


	5. 5 Dreams and Other Interpretations

**A/N: Wow! I got this out sooner than I thought I would!**

**Thanks to Kitai3134, TellMeMore90 and Selany for joining the party! Hope you're having fun!**

**If you like the story, please let me know. Sometimes your questions or comments help me think through a chapter. Please don't give away any details in the story. Some people read reviews and I don't want it spoiled for them. Thanks!**

**Swearing (Greg and John are potty mouths!) Some violence, possible suicide triggers. Angst – 'cause that's what the description promised!**

5. Dreams and Other Interpretations

_Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before._

_Edgar Allan Poe_

**Pain**

_**John?**_

**Fear, Confusion**

_**John, can you hear me?**_

**Pressure, brain-crushing pressure**

_**Sherlock, he's convulsing!**_

**Memories explode.**

_He's on a cliff near the ocean. A beautiful girl is in his arms. She has long dark hair and black, black eyes. He tells her he loves her. Her smile is sly. He knows she is unfaithful. He is angry with her. He can't forgive her. She's been playing with his affections. He kisses her deeply and passionately. She sighs. Anger mounts. Betrayal. He pulls out the knife he'd hidden in his clothes and stabs her in the heart. He throws her body over the cliff. In despair at what's been done again, what he's done, he follows behind._

_**Move that out of the way!**_

_He rushes far forward in time. He is travelling down a dark road. He'd arranged to meet him at an Inn. They talk, but the other man won't leave his wife. He won't forgive the other man. He gets him drunk and he leads him quietly up to a room. They make love once, twice. The anger mounts. He strangles him. The owner of the Inn finds him in the morning draped over the cold still form. He'd slit his wrists._

_**Sherlock, I'm calling an ambulance.**_

_**No! Not yet. Wait!**_

_Farther back again, but not too far. He finds himself in England. He is married to a beautiful young woman. He doesn't trust her. He hires a handsome servant to test her. She beds the servant at her earliest convenience. He is mad with grief and tells her he will never forgive her. He kills them both and then himself._

_He goes farther back. Italy. He has lured a young man in off of the streets. His father must not find out. It is beautiful for weeks, months. He loves this man and then one day he over hears him bragging to his street friends about the rich merchant's son he is sleeping with. He tells them the fool thinks it is love. He can't forgive him, so he arranges for his father to find them in bed. The father in disgust hands them over to the Church. They are burned at the stake. That was one of the worst one._

_**Sherlock if he doesn't stop soon, I'm calling a bloody ambulance!**_

_**Wait! Listen! He's talking, he's saying something. He's speaking in Italian!**_

_The memories come fast and thicker. He thinks he's going to break and shatter into tiny pieces. Berlin, Rome, New York, Kyoto, Constantinople, places whose names have changed a hundred times, different languages, same language, different dialect, different cultures, sometimes he's a man, sometimes he's a woman. He flies between the centuries; landing lightly now, not staying long, only seeing the immediate results of his earlier actions, of the same actions again and again. He is in so much despair. All the hurt and anguish he has caused. No, No, NO! Please not this time. Oh Goddess, please! Please forgive me! A voice whispers in through the memories. It is not my forgiveness, but each other's. Remember what I told you, child._

_**He has spoken at least seven different languages, probably more. I haven't been able to analyze all of them. Sometimes it's just a phrase or a word. Some I don't even recognize. He knows Dari and Pashto. He might have a smattering of basic French, but that's it! He doesn't speak these languages. I doubt anybody does!**_

_She is at the crossroads. She is furious and hurt, her heart is breaking. An impossibly tall and breathtaking woman stands before her. The Goddess looks dispassionately at her. _

"_I will never forgive him!" she screams at the Goddess._

"_Then child I will ensure you never forget so that you will always remember why." The Goddess reaches forward and touches her on the forehead and in her pain she misses the Goddess' next words._

_**Oh for fuck's sake Sherlock. I'm calling the fucking ambulance. It's been over five fucking minutes and I know my fucking first aid, you inhuman, arrogant…**_

_**They're stopping.**_

_The memories are slowing. Just flickers. Colours, sounds, fragments of feelings._

**Shaking. Shock?**

**Still hurts!**

_**Shhh! Your okay. Help me get him into a recovery position. John can you hear me?**_

**Yes.**

_**It's gonna be okay mate. Sherlock, grab that blanket. **_

**What's that noise? Christ, is that me?**

_**John it's okay. I'm here. You're alright.**_

**Sherlock? I'm sorry.**

oOo

John blinked slowly. He felt someone running his hands through his hair and murmuring. His vision was blurry. He couldn't quite process what he was seeing. Someone moved from in front of him. He was on the floor. That would explain why he could see under the couch. It needed cleaning.

_I think there's a pair of socks under there._

Sherlock's face came into view.

_His hair needs a trim. It hangs in his face a bit when he leans over. Huh, he looks worried. I'd never say scared 'cause he wouldn't like that._

He blinked slowly and frowned. "What happened?" he croaked.

"What do you remember?" asked Sherlock.

_Too much. All of it. There was something at the end? Wasn't there?_

"Ummm, Greg coming over. And a story," he paused and took a shaky breath. "Our story," he amended. He thought hard around an influx of too many other, older memories. "I think I started to tell you something…"

A wave of pain and nausea hit him. He gasped.

"John, don't say anything more."

He nodded weakly. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his face but he was too tired. He closed his eyes.

"Lestrade, go to the bathroom, wet a flannel and bring it here."

He heard footsteps receding.

A few seconds past and then the sound of footsteps returning. He felt a cool, soft cloth wipe his face and the back of his neck.

There was a long pause.

"Do you think you're ready to sit up, yet?"

He opened his eyes again and looked at Sherlock.

_He's really cute when he's worried._

"I think I can manage," he said quietly.

Supported by both Greg and Sherlock he managed to get into a sitting position. Sherlock was sitting behind him and he leaned back against his partner. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. John took in a deep breath.

"Not quite the night you were expecting," he managed a shaky smile in Greg's direction.

Greg, looking decidedly pale, shook his head in bemusement. "Scared the shite right out of me mate! What the fuck happened?"

John shuddered slightly. "Do you remember when I told you I couldn't talk about this?" He waved his hand vaguely. Greg nodded. "Yeah, well that's what happened." He swallowed. "Do you think you'd get me some water, please?" Greg got up from where he was crouched and padded out to the kitchen. Sherlock leaned his head against the back of John's. "Are you alright?" he whispered and John felt his arms clench reflexively.

John nodded. "I will be. All the…memories rushed in at once. I think it fried my brain a little."

He could practically hear Sherlock thinking.

"John, I'm not saying I believe this story or even understand it," and he paused and John could almost hear the distaste in his mouth that there might be something he didn't understand. "But I heard you speaking at least seven distinct languages. Perfectly." He squeezed his partner tighter. Greg returned with a glass of water and handed it to John. John smiled his thanks and drank half of the glass in one go. Greg sat down in John's chair and looked at the two men on the floor. His eyes were tired and old.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Damned if I know," said John.

oOo

Two very different men, at two different locations both received the recordings and transcripts of a conversation between three men. The two men who lived in the flat had no idea that there were listening and recording devices present. They had warned one of the men to remove all of the listening devices on pain of excommunication and in the younger man's case vague death threats. They had checked the flat and were confident that no new ones had been installed since. They didn't realize that they were simply hidden better. They had no idea that the other man had also bugged their flat. Their confidence in not being spied upon was going to be detrimental to the health of the older resident of the flat.

Both men had very different reactions to the information received. One was overly concerned about the mental well being of the one individual. It sounded as if he was having some sort of break down, probably from the stress of living with the younger inhabitant, perhaps coupled with after effects from the war.

The other man, well he was intrigued.

Yes indeed.

oOo

Lestrade left. He told Sherlock he would call in the morning to see how John was doing.

"But call me if, you know…" he shrugged.

"Stop wasting your energy berating yourself. It's not your fault," John said sternly.

"Yeah. But…"

"Good night," Sherlock said, shutting the door, effectively ending any further discussion.

He turned to where John was sitting on the couch.

"Bed," he said firmly.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's tone.

"Yes, mother," he smirked.

Sherlock ran up to John's room to retrieved his pajamas. John hadn't seemed to require them last night. As much as Sherlock was enjoying the added physical benefits of their new relationship, he knew that not much was going to happen tonight. John was simply too exhausted and shaken.

Sherlock sat down abruptly on John's bed. All that had happened over the last 24 hours overwhelmed him. Was that all? 24 hours. 23 hours, 19 minutes and 7 seconds to be exact. His ability to keep track of time was unimpaired, but it seemed even to him that was an impossibly short amount of time. So little time for so many momentous events to have taken place.

He let some of the concern (_not fear_) he'd been holding back since John's seizures creep into his chest.

_What if John is mentally unsound? The facts would be more supportive of that conclusion than this patently absurd tale of Lestrade's. Or what if it's a tumor. There are reported instances of hallucinations with a tumor._

_But he spoke seven different languages, at least, (I couldn't catch them all) that I know he doesn't speak._

_But what if he lied to you? (That sounded suspiciously like Mycroft! Bastard!)_

_John would not lie._

_Lestrade seems to be in agreement with this story at least on some level. I cannot, I do not believe that this is an elaborate hoax._

_I will simply have to wait for further evidence to reveal itself. For right now the best option is to make John comfortable._

_If it is proven that John is mentally unsound then I will do all I can to make him well again. I fixed him once before. If it is something else (Please not cancer) we will deal with that as well._

All of this took less than a few seconds, but as Sherlock reentered the living room, John, who could read Sherlock almost as well as Sherlock could read John, said,

"Worried I might be mentally unsound?"

Hearing the exact phrasing that had whispered in his ear up in the other bedroom, he stopped and looked at John. He cleared his throat.

"I must admit it has crossed my mind."

John nodded, not disappointed or upset. Not really anything.

"Well I'd have to agree with you there, if I weren't me," he said with a rueful grin.

Sherlock crossed over to where John was sitting and looked down at his best friend/lover. He raised his hand and brushed John's hair back from his face and he held out his hand to John.

"Come," and he tugged John off of the couch and they went into Sherlock's bedroom.

oOo

Several Hours Later

As he had the night of The Pool, Sherlock was guarding over John's sleep. He could tell he was dreaming, from the movement of his eyes under his lids. REM sleep.

John started muttering. Sherlock thought quickly and reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his mobile, enabling the recording device on it.

John's muttering grew louder, clearer.

_Greek? But Classical, not modern. Pronunciation is odd. I'm not familiar with some of the words. That wasn't one of the languages he was speaking earlier._

He recorded and listened while John dreamt of a different time and place.

After John settled into a deeper, dreamless sleep, he emailed the recording to someone who owed him a favour.

_Suspect attached recording is Classical Greek. Dialect is unusual. Confirm and interpret. This will cancel out any further favours._

_SH_

He put the mobile back and threw his arm and leg over John; he snuggled into the doctor's neck and breathed in deeply. John's essential Johnness relaxed him and he fell asleep.

oOo

The Next Morning

John woke the next morning to voices coming from the living room. They were muted as the door to the bedroom was closed. He recognized Sherlock's because he was yelling. Loudly. He couldn't quite make out the other person's voice, but there was only one person on the planet that could piss off Sherlock that much.

John's head hurt too much from last night's 'episode'. He'd had vivid dreams through out the night, mostly about Greece. He didn't dream much about Greece anymore. He took it as a bad sign for that lifetime, the first one he could remember, to show up. There was something he tried to remember from the dream, but the shouting was distracting.

He pulled himself out of bed with a sigh. Might as well face the music.

He opened the door and he could hear everything.

"…business being here! You had no business bugging our flat, again! I warned you Mycroft and you have gone too far. This is NOT YOUR CONCERN!"

John could here the smirk in Mycroft's tone.

"Brother, I have always been concerned with your well being. I have had nothing but your best interests at heart. If there is something wrong with Dr. Watson, then I am here to offer the best care available. I would not wish to see you distressed if something were to happen to the good doctor."

John could hear the oily smile. Then the words caught up to his brain.

_Wait? Did Sherlock say the flat was bugged? Great, bloody, fucking marvelous. That means he heard…Shit. Double Shit. Fuck._

John was not a Captain in Her Majesty's Army for nothing. He straightened his shoulders and marched in to face the enemy, as it were.

He put on a bracing smile.

"Morning, Mycroft. Come to chuck me in the insane asylum?"

He wished he'd had a camera. After living with Sherlock all these months, he'd been snuck up on by the lanky detective with the ability to stealth like a jungle cat more times than he could count. He'd never once been able to do the same until now. The cat imagery held up, as Sherlock spun, looking more like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on the poor creature. Mycroft also appeared startled, at least as startled, as Mycroft ever would.

John doubled over with laughter, which did nothing to help alleviate Mycroft's assumption that John Watson was a complete nutter, by the look of the raised eyebrow.

"Oh, oh," he giggled harder. "Oh I wish you could have seen your face." Tears were running down his cheeks. "Oh my. I needed that!" He wiped his eyes, still giggling. Sherlock was not amused and stood with his arms crossed, rolling his eyes. Mycroft feigned interest in his manicure.

"I see that your _relationship_ has made a decided turn," the words 'for the worse' seemed to hang in the air, but that could have been John's imagination. It sobered him up pretty quick, if nothing else. "May I offer my congratulations?" He smiled thinly at the two men.

Sherlock huffed at Mycroft and stomped over to his chair. He glared at Mycroft as if daring him to say anything else. Mycroft ignored his younger brother and turned to John.

He smiled an insincere smile. "How are you feeling this morning, John? Have you recovered from your attack last night? It sounds to me as if you should visit a doctor and get yourself checked out. Seizures are not something you want to ignore."

John looked at Mycroft and folded his arms across his chest.

"I _am_ a doctor, Mycroft. They weren't ordinary seizures and as long as I shut up about certain things in my memory they shouldn't happen again."

Mycroft cleared his throat and pursed his lips. "Yes, those memories of yours. And who would have guessed that Detective Inspector Lestrade knew such wonderful stories." He looked at John sharply and all traces of fake good humour disappeared. "Let me tell you something, John. I have a great appreciation for all the things you do for my brother. I have noticed a marked increase in Sherlock, of better behavior. I believe you are generally a good influence on him. However," and the threat was evident in his tone. "If I feel you are in any way harmful to my brother, I will take action."

John stepped closer to Mycroft and looked him steadily in the eye. "If it comes to that Mycroft, you won't have to take action. I'll remove myself from your brother's side before I'd ever let anything happen to him." Sherlock's head came up sharply at that.

"John," he started to say.

"No Sherlock. I promise you both, I will not let harm come to Sherlock because of me or my actions."

"See that you don't. I like you Dr. Watson. I might even miss you." And with that Mycroft removed himself from the flat. Sherlock marched over to the stairs and yelled down at this brother.

"Remove your equipment before tonight, Mycroft!" and he slammed the door. He turned and faced John.

John's bravery left with Mycroft and he sunk down into his chair with his head in his hands. Sherlock rushed over to John's side.

"He shouldn't have threatened you," he practically growled.

John looked up at Sherlock and sighed. "He's right to be concerned."

Sherlock shook his head. "You would never hurt me John. I trust you."

John smiled wearily at Sherlock. "Maybe you shouldn't. I know things about me that you don't and I can't tell you. I'm not good for you." He slumped back in his chair. "If I could, I'd go."

"Don't say that!" Sherlock almost whined. The thought of John even contemplating leaving was throwing his newly awoken emotional state off kilter.

But John wasn't listening. He was remembering all of the images from last night. In every lifetime jealousy and anger had caused him to kill Sherlock or get them both killed. Usually it was caused by the Sherlock soul's callousness and infidelity or inability to love. This time Sherlock just thought he couldn't love or wasn't interested.

_Sherlock loves me. Doesn't he? Don't start thinking that right now. There's something else. There's something I'm not remembering, Dammit! There's something I've forgotten._

Sherlock took John's hands, which were clenched tightly in his hair, and lightly rubbed the back of them until John started relaxing. As John unclenched and opened his hands up to Sherlock's touch, the detective massaged the palms. John noticed there was a slight frown on the younger man's face. He leaned forward and kissed the furrow between his partner's eyes.

"It would not be good if you left, John" Pause. "For me…I…would not handle it well if you left." John knew it took a lot for Sherlock to voice his concern.

John kissed above Sherlock's right eye and then above his left.

"I'm not leaving," he said.

"My brother's a git."

John laughed slightly at Sherlock's use of slang. A tiny grin played at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"You have to look at it from his point of view. You don't really believe any of this or at least your weighing your opinions until you receive more data," John grinned and Sherlock was once again amazed at how well John knew him. "And you were here."

"John, I want to ask you some questions. I do not want to cause you stress and I will try to avoid asking you any questions that will trigger a seizure. Would that be acceptable?"

"Ask away. I'll let you know if I can't answer,"

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"Why are you so positive that Lestrade's story is true."

"Because I remember it."

"Yes, but that's not proof, is it?" there was a slight hint of irritation in Sherlock's tone.

"Yeah, but it's all I got so far."

"Why do you believe there is a specific deity involved?"

"Again because I remember it."

Sherlock huffed. This was not getting them anywhere.

"Okay look. Let me try to explain it this way. In the ancient days, hell even now, your beliefs in a deity made it real. You didn't not believe. Believing was seeing. So who knows, maybe I did it to myself out of guilt or something." There was a slight twinge in his head as if he were getting too close to something he shouldn't say. "All I know is that I remember lifetimes with you. And they always ended badly." The pain intensified a bit more.

"What happen…?"

John held up his hand. "I don't think I can say any more than that. Maybe if you figure it out for yourself, maybe I can tell you. But right now I think I'm hungry and I need food and tea. And a shower." He smiled slyly at Sherlock. "You are most welcome to join me in all three." Sherlock's tentative smile broadened. He wasn't interested in breakfast. John had just handed him an invitation to solve a puzzle. A puzzle about John. Granted it was all part of the same puzzle. Still…

He could drink tea and he was definitely interested in a shower. With John.

oOo

Later That Day

_Sex in the shower was definitely a good idea,_ John thought, as he got dressed, slowly, his limbs feeling rather rubbery and loose from all the extra calisthenics. _Sex in the shower with Sherlock was a spectacular idea._

_Sex in the bedroom after the shower was simply brilliant._

The shower had been hot, demanding and urgent. Sherlock wouldn't release his eyes, wouldn't let him go as if affirming for himself that John was alright. John thought he wouldn't mind trying that again, especially if it was right after a case. The thrill and adrenalin of the chase would give it an edge. It would be very stimulating.

The bedroom had been tender and restrained. It had been easier having the urgency and lust removed. Sherlock had taken his time. He'd been learning from their previous sessions and filing it away in that great beautiful brain. He was beginning to understand what made John shiver and moan and he seemed determined to set a new record in the numbers of times he could hear John gasp.

In the afterglow Sherlock told him that he had had some previous experience with a few partners. More as an experiment, but he had never bothered to stick around long enough for reciprocal lovemaking. John had asked him what was different this time. Sherlock was very quiet. John's heart thudded in anticipation of his answer. There was some fear there as well.

Sherlock had looked into John's eyes. What John saw there made him gasp again. He braved a different question.

"What are you getting out of this Sherlock?"

"I assume you mean besides the added benefits of endorphins flooding my brain and the chemical rush that is not dissimilar from drugs, but certainly healthier?"

John had chuckled. Trust Sherlock to break it down. "Yes."

Sherlock it his lip in such an endearing way that John was also tempted to bite it.

He looked deeper into John's eyes.

"I love you."

John felt tears well up.

"And I don't mean because I have to because of the utter nonsense of that curse you and Lestrade keep blathering about." John realized that being told he had to do something was forced to do something because someone told him he had to, would not sit well with the detective. His next words confirmed this. "I will not be dictated to, forced to love or not love someone not of my choosing. I love you because you are you, John Watson, not some pissed off Goddess' handmaiden." John giggled a little at that. He looked less in this body like a handmaiden than say even Anderson did.

"I love you because you clear my mind. What I get out of this besides sex," and he grinned wolfishly at John, "Is focus."

John reached up and pulled his head down and kissed him with all of his soul. They engaged in quiet kisses and strokes until John, tired from last night's ordeal and all the sex fell asleep. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, ensuring he really was asleep, kissed him on the forehead, got dressed and went into the living room.

Later, after getting dressed, John sauntered out into the other room. Sherlock was using his laptop. It appeared he was on an internet sight devoted to Greek study.

John went into the kitchen to look for something to make for supper, but knowing there hadn't been much food left for breakfast he came to grips with the fact that he would have to get some shopping done if they wanted to eat. Amend that, if _he _wanted to eat. Sherlock was too wrapped up in the search for an answer to John's problem to worry about something as trivial as food.

"Sherlock? I'm going out to get some food. Do you want anything from the shops?"

There was no sound from the chair.

"Sherlock? Shops? I'm going?"

"Yes shops. Marvelous."

John sighed. He grabbed his coat.

"Well, text me if you think of anything."

The door to the flat closed.

Five minutes later.

"We are almost out of tea."

…

"John?"

Sherlock looked around, coming to the realization that John had actually left and he hadn't noticed.

He dug his mobile out.

_Tea_

_SH_

_Oh you finally noticed I left?_

_JW_

_Amusing John._

_SH_

_Oh and sugar._

_SH_

…

…

_John?_

_SH_

…

_Hello Sexy._

…

_Don't worry about the pet. I'll take good care of him for you. I might feed him and everything. I'll definitely use a leash. Maybe teach him some new tricks._

_JM_


	6. 6 Nearing the End of the Road

**A/N: Sorry it took me all week to update! First of all life interrupted and secondly this chapter was incredibly hard to write. It is not a happy chapter and I'm very nervous about imaginary karmic backlash from John.**

**I would like to thank johnsarmylady –we've been having a lovely conversation! I think I'm going to play poker with her to see who gets John! She'll win! Go read her story Russian Roulette- it's brilliant! And to LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate (best penname ever!) she has some fantastic stories about Greg (sigh-Greg)– both are following little old me! I went from having a crappy week to having the best day ever!**

**Warnings: Physical, emotional and sexual torture (not too graphic for the sex part), drug use (imaginary designer –er, on my part not the characters), lots of swearing, tonnes of angst and 1 crazy psychopath (I really shouldn't write Jim after drinking coffee).**

**When in doubt at the end of the chapter think about the quote I started the chapter with. I probably won't be updating again until next week –sorry!**

6. Nearing the End of the Road

_Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end. _

_Author Unknown_

Sherlock dialed Lestrade with trembling finger.

"Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

"Moriarty has John."

"What?"

"Get over here."

He hung up and debated for a moment. He dialed his brother. He would do anything, anything for John, even speak to Mycroft and beg favours.

The phone rang twice on Mycroft's private line.

"Ah Sherlock, so delightful to hear from you. What can…?"

Sherlock interrupted. "I need all the CCTV footage surrounding our flat and beyond."

"What happened?" the tone changed to serious, the arrogance for once pushed aside.

"Moriarty has John." And he hung up.

He ran his hand through his hair with a shaky hand.

In his mind was a high-pitched whine. _John, John, John, John, John, John._

The only comfort he had at the moment was that Moriarty had contacted him. Had let him know he had John. It wasn't much comfort. Moriarty was probably just doing it to gloat. Gloat that he could take John right from under his nose letting him know about it. He would take great pleasure in hurting John just to get to Sherlock.

Sherlock waited 10 minutes for Lestrade, who arrived with lights and sirens. He waited 15 for Mycroft. It felt like forever before he got to see John again. He would be almost too late.

oOo

John woke gradually and confused. His head hurt and his mouth was dry and he couldn't see. He felt slightly nauseated. He came to the realization that his chin was on his chest. He felt something soft covering his eyes. He was sitting in a chair and he was bound, but not gagged. He felt naked from the waist up and appeared to be missing his shoes and socks. Not a good way to become conscious. Not good at all.

The pounding in his head and the dryness of his mouth was most distracting. He was also starting to feel cold.

_Wake up, dammit and think. Soldier mode, John!_

He had no idea where he was.

Now that he was more awake, he assessed his own situation. He was in a metal chair that did nothing to alleviate the feeling of cold. His arms were behind the chair and it felt like handcuffs on his wrists. Cold metal also circled his ankles, which felt like they were cuffed to the legs of the chair. He swallowed and he noticed something heavy around his neck, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was. It felt like a metal chain.

He thought hard, trying to remember what had happened and how he got here. The last thing he truly remembered was leaving the flat to get something for supper…

Something about asking Sherlock… Sherlock had texted him about…tea…he'd made a joke about Sherlock noticing he as gone and then…It was fuzzy after that.

He hoped he wouldn't have to wait too long to get some answers as to why he was here. He usually ended up in these situations because of Sherlock or something Sherlock was working on. He assumed this was one of those situations. They really weren't working on a case at the moment. Sherlock had wrapped up their last one…was it two days ago? The day Lestrade had come over?

He was having difficulty thinking around the headache.

There was the sound of a door opening behind him and someone crossed the floor. When he heard the voice, he was sorry he had been curious to find out what was going on.

"My Dear, Dear Johnny Boy. How lovely to see you again. I hope you are comfortable?"

He felt Moriarty come around to stand in front of John's chair.

"No? I am so sorry. Sorry about the headache, too. Had to drug you. And _so_ sorry about the accommodations. It was the only place that would take us on short notice. I'd rather have taken you back to my place," he almost purred "I have a lovely king size bed" he leaned in close to John's left ear and whispered, "with expensive Egyptian cotton sheets. They feel delightful…against…the…skin…and my dear…you have such lovely skin." Suddenly John felt, lightly, almost gently, the back of a finger run up his shoulder, over his scar and up his neck, skipping past the chain around it. Then a hand grabbed John's chin and tugged it up.

"Do you like my present? I bought it especially for you. It's a collar. I believe they call it a choke chain. There's a leash attached. If you're very bad I can pull on it. It's for correcting bad pets. Lots of people think that's cruel. Shall we try it and see? See if it's cruel? If you don't answer I'll pull on it."

John stayed silent.

There was a tug and the chain around his neck tightened.

John struggled as his air was abruptly cut off. Suddenly Moriarty let go. He pulled air into his lungs.

"Now let's try this. You will thank me for the collar, like a goooood pet," he swooped down to John's ear again, "And I'll kiss you. You remember our last kiss, hmmm? If you don't say thank you, I'll pull on the collar. Now what do you say?'

"Go. To. Hell."

Moriarty pulled viciously on the chain. John choked. Just before he was about to pass out, Moriarty let go again. His lungs burned and he couldn't seem to get enough air in them. The doctor part of his brain was worried about swelling. If his neck swelled from the bruising he wouldn't be able to breath.

Moriarty wasn't prepared to kill him just yet, however.

"Bad, bad, pet." And he slapped down on John's nose, hard enough to sting. Tears came to his eyes.

"I can smell him on you," Moriarty's voice growled low. "I know what you two have been doing. You can't hide it from me. You can't hide anything from me."

John who was still gasping for air, felt him circle behind. He felt a hand in his hair running through it and then the hand viciously grabbed and pulled back. John's head was forced up and back. "You shouldn't have touched him you know. You aren't meant for him. You're meant for me to use and toss aside and then he is meant for me. I am meant for him. You've spoiled him. You have been very, very bad," he hissed and he gave John's head a shake. He let go and there was the sound of him walking away from the chair.

John started chuckling.

The footsteps stopped. His voice hissed again, "Why are you laughing?" John heard in the tone that Moriarty, like Sherlock, disliked not knowing something.

"You're jealous," John said, still wheezily chuckling.

"I'm what?"

"You are jealous. You're jealous that Sherlock picked me. That's what this is about."

He heard Moriarty walk slowly back to John's chair and the sound of him crouching down in front of it. "Why would I be jealous of you? You are plain and ordinary. The only thing going for you, my dear doctor, is your physical attributes. You do have a lovely, lovely body, you know." John felt a cold, dry hand touch his stomach and he flinched. There was a low chuckle from the body in front of him "But I know your secret Johnny. I've been listening."

John looked toward the sound of his voice.

_Does everyone have a fucking bug in our flat?_

"So what? So you think I'm crazy. It's not like I think highly of your opinion."

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Don't you see? You know I will kill you when I'm done here. Or I may let you go, go back to Dear Sherlock after I'm done playing. Of course you'll die soon after. If I do let you go, I will release the recording of you having that little break down last night to the media. Won't that be fun? Sherlock's pet doctor and side kick is FUCKING CRAZY."

There was a beeping sound.

"Oh look at the time. I have to run. Someone to see about killing something." He stood and started walking past John's chair. Suddenly there was a hand on his chin again. He kissed John viciously and bit his lower lip, drawing blood.

"Something to remember me by until I get back. Make your self at home. Oh and when I come back I'll have another present for you." He sang out as he left. Closing the door behind him. John heard the lock engage.

John took a deep breath and thought hard. He had to get the hell out of here and away from that whack job before he came back.

He wasn't sure how that was going to happen. He shuddered a bit from the cold. If he didn't get something to wear soon he was going to suffer from hypothermia on top of everything else.

He only hoped Sherlock could find him quickly. He wasn't betting that he'd like the 'present' Moriarty was bringing back.

oOo

"What do you mean you don't have footage? Mycroft you control all of the CCTV cameras in London! What the hell are you good for if you can't help me track down John?"

"Sherlock…."

"No seriously. I have been wasting time waiting for you to come here and tell me you have nothing when I could be out hunting down Moriarty and rescuing John!"

"Sherlock, I am trying to tell you that some how Moriarty hacked into our surveillance and took control of it. He managed to shut down the entire system. My people are certain he has not left London because the system wasn't down for a long enough period of time for him to have gone very far. You need to sit down and think. You cannot help John in this state."

Sherlock glared at his brother. Didn't he realize he couldn't think? Not without John. He needed to be here to help him focus. How was he supposed to do this? He was beginning to panic and he knew if he tipped over the edge he would lose all ability to figure out where John was. He was expecting Moriarty to send clues to John's whereabouts. He was afraid he wouldn't, that this was going to be a different game. Fear was beginning to eat through his carefully structured walls.

With a massive effort, Sherlock pulled himself together and with a certain amount of pain locked the door of his mind palace to the huge room that was John. He needed to close John off in order access his ability to find him.

He sat down on the couch steepled his hands and thought.

oOo

John wasn't sure how much time had past since he'd been left alone again. He must have dozed off when the sound of the door opening jerked him awake. It sounded like Moriarty had returned and he was joined by at least 2 others judging by the footsteps.

"Oooo pet, are you shivering? We will have to think of some way to warm you up," he breathed on the back of John's neck. John shuddered again but not from the cold.

"I'd introduce you to my acquaintances but in a few minutes you will be beyond caring, so I won't. I hope you haven't forgotten the present I told you about. I have it right here."

There wasn't any indication by sound or movement for John to guess what was happening until he felt them unlock his right arm from the cuffs and relock the cuff to the chair, keeping his left arm in place. Who ever it was, was very strong and held John's arm in a vice like grip as they pulled it around and held it out straight. John had a feeling he knew where this was going. He started struggling. He then felt the chain pull on his neck again. It hurt and he was having trouble breathing. He felt the sharp prick of a needle. The area of his arm where the needle was felt cool as something, a liquid, was pushed into his veins. There was an icy sensation creeping up his veins.

"I hope you like it. It's a special blend all my own. Oh don't worry, it's not cocaine or anything mundane and boring like that. It's something I had made up. Very useful. You will lose all inhibitions. I can ask you any question and you won't hesitate to answer. You'll in fact be happy to answer."

_Great_, thought John. _Just fucking lovely._

"John, John, Johnny Boy. I must tell you…well okay I don't _have _to tell you, but this is such fun, I can't hold back. I never could keep a really good, juicy secret…this drug has two delicious side effects." John could swear that Moriarty was practically licking his lips and suddenly his voice was right in his ear again, low and seductive, whispering, "Heightened sexuality is the first one. This could be fun, you know."

John was starting to panic from the implications evident in the madman's tone.

"Don't you want to know the other?" And he slowly licked the outside of John's ear. He wasn't kidding about the heightened sexuality. Despite the fact that he was getting nauseated and beginning to hyperventilate, Moriarty's tongue in his ear went straight to his groin. John gasped. "Oh my dear Doctor, I can tell you _do_ want to know!"

John swallowed, suddenly more afraid than he had been in a very long time.

"It's poisonous. I have just injected you with a toxic substance. You have oh approximately 6 or 7 hours left to live." John didn't think his heart rate could increase anymore.

Suddenly there was a pair of lips gently, almost tenderly kissing his own bruised ones. And that hated voice whispered, "I plan on making your last few hours memorable."

"Pick him up," commanded Moriarty. The two other bodies in the room swiftly unlocked the rest of the cuffs and each grabbed his limbs. John started struggling, but someone had the chain and was pulling on it again. He stopped moving.

"That's much better. Good, good pet." He felt a hand stroke his chest. He thought he was going to be sick.

He was carried over some distance and then he was lowered until his body touched a soft surface. A bed.

_Oh god, please. No! _His usual prayer to the Goddess didn't seem to fit. He did not want this to be her will.

He felt the handcuffs lock in place, his arms and legs stretched apart.

"Leave us," came Moriarty's voice. The sound of footsteps receding and the door opening and closing.

John felt another weight settle on the edge of the bed. Moriarty was humming.

He flinched again when two hands started stroking his chest.

"You do have a lovely body Johnny. You keep it so fit and trim," John felt Moriarty's fingers trailing up and around his pectorals. Suddenly there were lips kissing his stomach and teeth started biting, hard. John retched. There was a low chuckle.

"I thought you liked men."

John had nothing left at this point but his courage.

"I like Sherlock. Not you, you fucked up sadistic bastard," and John laughed, a slightly hysterical laugh. "I guess your right. Telling you the truth did make me feel better." He tried to move but his limbs were pinned too tightly.

The consulting criminal chuckled again and started kissing his way up John's chest. He got to John's chin and mouth and forced his tongue into John's again. John bit down hard and felt blood.

Moriarty yelled in outrage and he punched him hard in the stomach. John gasped and gagged, unable to fold in on himself. He then felt the chain pulled tighter, so tight there were black edges creeping on his consciousness.

As suddenly as it started it stopped. John wheezed and coughed. When he could breath again he noticed the weight was gone from the bed. He desperately hoped Moriarty was going to leave.

He heard Moriarty walking away. But the sound of a chair being moved to the edge of the bed dashed all his hopes. He heard him spit onto the floor and John had some grim satisfaction that he'd at least damaged the criminal consultant even a little.

"Since you seem not quite in the mood, I'll start asking you some questions. We will still have time, my dear. And the longer I wait the more you'll be ready for sex, so really it's a win-win situation. Let's start with some questions about the lovely seizures you were having last night."

John shook and yelled, "Fuck off!"

He heard Moriarty yawn.

"Oh believe me I will. In good time. Now let's see, what to ask? Oh yes! Tell me about this newly discovered ability of yours to speak, what was it the consulting idiot said? Seven languages, yes? How did you manage that?"

There was a feeling of unreality and heaviness with what was happening to John, and to John's horror he heard himself say, "I remember every life I've lived from the first one in Greece six thousand years ago. When I remember them it's in that language." He shut his mouth with a snap. _How the hell was I able to do that? Why doesn't it hurt?_

"Can you speak these languages when ever you wish? Or only when you are seizing?"

John desperately tried to prevent his mouth from opening, but it was beginning to feel as if that part of his brain was detached from the rest. He spoke with little conscious effort. "I retain some memory of the languages I spoke, but can only remember them in the conversations I had at the time. I only remember them in dreams."

"Interesting. So you really do believe this ridiculous fairy tale you and the dishy Detective Inspector have been feeding to Sherlock?" there was a tone of mild surprise in Moriarty's voice and something else.

"Yes," said John.

There was silence for a moment. And then John heard the words he'd been dreading Moriarty would say since he started questioning him. "Tell me everything. How did this come about?"

And John did. He told him everything.

oOo

Sherlock sat in the same position for several hours. Lestrade and Mycroft spent time on their mobiles out of Sherlock's hearing trying to track down leads. Mrs. Hudson came and went, silent tears tracking down her face as she brought tea and biscuits and trying to keep everyone's spirits up. She didn't really get far mostly because her own spirits were being crushed and trampled.

Just as Mrs. Hudson was about to place a fresh cuppa beside Sherlock, next to the other two he'd ignored, he jumped up, startling her, causing the cup to fall and spill over. She was saved from a scalding by the simple expediency of letting go of the cup.

"Mycroft! Lestrade!" He ignored Mrs. Hudson completely.

Mycroft came in from Sherlock's bedroom and Greg ran up the stairs where he'd been standing talking on his mobile with the Yard.

They stopped and stared at Sherlock.

He stood there looking more pale than usual, his eyes glittering with a strange light. Both men took in the grim but determined face.

"I know where he is," he stated simply.

"John? You know where Moriarty has him?" asked Greg.

Sherlock growled at Lestrade. "Didn't I just say that? I know where he is. Or at least I have a good idea where."

Mycroft looked at him steadily. "There's something else."

Sherlock ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I have been going about this the wrong way. I tried to find John by shutting him out. I needed to think! I …" and he swallowed heavily. "I was distracted…but then I thought about **John **and I let him back in and then I…felt him. I could see where he was, but not by my usual methods. It's like we are tied to each other." He paused and he looked even paler, if that was at all possible. "There's more. Something's been done to him. I think…I think he's dying."

Greg and Mycroft looked at each other and then back at Sherlock.

"How can you possibly know that? Do you not think that you may be over reacting? You are obviously distressed…" Mycroft stopped when he noticed the threat level of Sherlock's glare.

"I don't know how I know. I just know, Mycroft! I can feel him, here," and he placed a hand on his heart and he started pacing around the room! The two men standing there could tell that this was upsetting to Sherlock on many levels. He was upset because he was using emotions not science and he was upset because it was John! And he was upset because he was upset!

"Well where is he man!" shouted Greg with impatience.

"In the Warehouse district."

Mycroft sent a text requesting a car and personnel to arrive at Baker Street immediately.

oOo

Euphoria was coursing through John Watson's veins. And he hated it. He felt blissfully light having told Moriarty all of his deep, dark secrets. He was also finding it difficult to ignore certain parts of his body that were readily betraying him. It was making him nauseated and disgusted with himself. He couldn't seem to turn it off.

Moriarty had finished with his questions and was sitting there quietly.

John was very afraid. He was shaking from a combination of the drug, lust and fear. He was also beginning to feel other effects from the drug in his system. He felt dizzy and a severe headache was forming that had nothing to do with the situation he was in. He'd blame the other conditions of thirst and cold, but the consulting criminal had provided him with water throughout the interrogation and at one point a blanket. John didn't for one minute believe it was a gesture of good will. He could hear Moriarty's fascination with John's story in his voice. He knew he had been talking for several hours and wondered how much time he had left.

_Please hurry, Sherlock._ He wanted desperately to be rescued, but he wanted even more desperately to see him one last time. If it was going to end like this he wanted to say goodbye. He wasn't worried about the curse any more. This situation was so far removed from anything that had previously been experienced in a former life. There was no jealousy and no anger. At least no anger directed towards Sherlock. Lots and lots of anger towards Moriarty.

At the faint edges of John's hearing he thought he could recognize sirens. And they were getting louder and closer by the second. He heard Moriarty shift in his chair.

"Seems like your friends found you a little sooner than I thought they would. Shame I thought we'd have more time. I think I'll leave you here for Sherly to find you. It's really far too late for you. There's no cure by the by!" He paused and ran a final hand on John's chest and stomach. "You should be pleased you will get to say goodbye! And that Sherly can see my handiwork. Such lovely bite marks on your chest and stomach. Bye bye for now Johnny. I'll be seeing you. Oh, no actually I won't!"

John heard him leave and he started shaking.

He wasn't sure how long he waited when he heard the door open again and a pair of familiar feet raced towards the bed.

"John, John are you alright?" Sherlock's voice was the best thing he'd ever heard. He didn't answer, he just lay there trying not to cry. He was working his mouth concentrating on it. He could feel Sherlock unlocking the cuffs around his wrists and ankles and then loosening the chain around his neck. A far gentler and loving touch than the last one checked out his bruises and bite marks on his neck, face and torso. John felt Sherlock's hands shake. Then the covering was removed from his eyes and John closed them to the brightness of the lights. Sherlock's warm, strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close and John, who was trying desperately not to break down lay his head on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock rocked him gently.

"You're freezing. Here," and John let go and the detective pulled his coat off and wrapped it around John's shoulders and the smell of the coat, Sherlock's smell, hit him and his breath hitched and he started crying.

"Shhhh, it's okay." And a hand came up and stroked his hair. After a few minutes John pulled back and wiped his eyes and looked at Sherlock. That's when Sherlock noticed how glazed the doctor's eyes were. He stilled. And then he took John's right arm and turned it and noticed the needle mark. Sherlock didn't say anything, but John knew that if he could the detective would kill Moriarty with his bare hands.

John grabbed Sherlock's hands and told him, told him everything, from the abuse to the application of the drug to telling Moriarty. He held back from telling him he only had hours to live. Sherlock would find out soon enough and he wanted to spend them trying to keep Sherlock happy.

"Lestrade brought paramedics. He's waiting outside the warehouse."

"No hospitals," said John firmly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and helped John to stand. He was very dizzy.

"Let's go."

John nodded, aching in body and soul and wanting nothing but to be with Sherlock.

He stopped and pulled on Sherlock's arm.

"How did you find me?"

Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes. "I don't know. I felt you. I knew where you were. I," he stopped looking at John more closely, confusion evident in his eyes. "I felt that you were dying. John," he paused again, longer. "What aren't you telling me?"

John hesitated and reached up a hand to touch Sherlock's face. He could deny this man nothing.

"I am dying, Sherlock." Sherlock started shaking his head in disbelief. "It's the drug he gave me. He told me it was toxic. I have about 3 or 4 hours left."

Sherlock pulled him tight once more. "You are going to a hospital," he murmured in John's hair. "Mycroft will find someone."

John just shook his head. "There isn't time. And I want to spend every minute with you."

Sherlock pulled back and John could see that his heart was breaking. They stood looking at one another when another wave of dizziness hit John. He would have fallen if the detective hadn't been holding him.

Sherlock's great brain was furiously thinking. He had to get John to the paramedics. He would have to trick him into going to the hospital. There was no way he was going to lose him.

He forced him to remain on his feet as he walked John out of the room he'd been held in. Sherlock tried to smile at John and found it difficult. He thought for a moment and then reached into the pocket of the coat John was wearing and pulled out John's gun.

"I thought you might like to have this."

John took the gun from Sherlock and released the safety.

"If I see James Moriarty, I'm going to blow his fucking head off." Sherlock only nodded in agreement, but he was thinking he would like to meet Moriarty first, preferably alone and take him apart slowly.

John for the first time noticed their surroundings. They were in an office of a large warehouse. All the regular office type equipment had been removed. The only furniture there was the bed and the chair.

John wondered what had happened to the rest of his clothes. If he weren't so cold he wouldn't have cared. He didn't even care that he was sure he looked absolutely ridiculous in Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock slowly and carefully opened the door and glanced outside. He pulled John with him through the door. They entered the main part of the warehouse. It was mostly empty except for crates and boxes along the farthest wall. Sherlock, glancing around, started making his way, followed by John, toward the rear exit. John could hear noises coming from the front of the warehouse. It sounded like someone was speaking on a bullhorn, but he couldn't make out individual words.

They made their way slowly across the floor, when suddenly there was movement from behind the crates. Two men came out with guns. John didn't even think, he just sighted along the gun quickly and instinctively and shot once, twice, almost impossible far and almost impossible quick and the two were down. Sherlock was sure they were dead as well.

"That should have alerted anyone left to our presence. Can you run?" John just nodded.

He jogged after the taller man. They came to the door and John grabbed Sherlock's arm indicating he would go first. He carefully opened the door. There was a third man posted there, but not a very good guard because he didn't even notice the door opening. John grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed it into the door frame. Sherlock searched and relieved the man of another gun. Sherlock kept it for himself.

"Nothing against your military skills, but this is far too easy." They left the building, walked quickly and quietly between the rows of warehouses, Sherlock still holding John up by the arm. As they approached the end of the warehouse, they saw Lestrade and Mycroft up ahead. As they passed a hidden door, it swung open and Moriarty came out followed by another taller, blonde man with a rifle.

"Oh look, you two leaving so soon? And John, I thought you and I were having so much fun."

Sherlock growled at Moriarty and took a step forward.

Moriarty shook his finger at him. "No, no, no Sherlock. I'll have to shoot you if you do that and I _really_ do not want to do that. I want you to play with me!"

Sherlock was very angry and lifted the gun, pointing it at Moriarty.

Moriarty sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "I've told you before not to be so obvious, my dear." He snapped his fingers and the tall blonde man aimed the rifle he was carrying at Sherlock.

John yelled "No!" and shoved Sherlock out of the way. The movement startled the blonde and his finger squeezed the trigger. John stilled and dropped to his knees. He'd been shot in the chest. Moriarty yelled "NOOOOOO! Not until I SAID!" And he backhanded the shooter. Shots rang out from the other direction, as Lestrade and Mycroft came rushing forward with a team of agents. Moriarty and the blond disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.

Sherlock rushed to John's side and pulled him into his arms. John's back was against his chest. Sherlock could see where the bullet had entered and placed his hand on the entry wound. It looked very close to John's heart. It couldn't have been a direct hit to the heart because he was still alive, for the moment.

Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John just below the entry wound.

"No, no, John, please don't die, stay with me, please." Tears were falling from the detective's eyes and landing on John's cheeks.

John coughed and tried to breath. Everything hurt too much. He could hear Lestrade calling for paramedics.

He tuned out everything except the face above his head. Sherlock's

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I don't think…" he couldn't talk anymore He just vaguely shook his head.

"Don't talk John, don't talk, shut up. Please don't die"

There was a puzzled look on John's face and then suddenly it cleared.

"I think… I…remember…what I'm suppose to do...to…stop this" He looked up so he could see Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock?...I'm supposed to for…forgive you. I forgive you. Sherlock," he whispered.

And with that John closed his eyes and stopped breathing.


	7. 7 Purge Your Soul

**A/N: Ooo sorry about how that last chaptered ended–well only a little bit sorry–Okay not sorry! This is the chapter I have been waiting to write. I hope you like it. I had most of it written in my head, which is why I was able to get it up sooner than I thought I would. Don't be confused by the beginning. I started with the last few lines from the last chapter.**

**Thanks to silverXshadow for following. Thanks to guest who reviewed at the beginning – I am sorry I missed thanking you in an earlier chapter! **

**Big thanks again to ThisDayWillPass for multiple reviews and big virtual hugs and jam (and kittens and rage) to johnsarmylady- you are awesome.**

**Not too many warnings for this chapter, not even swearing! – lots of forehead kissing, however!**

**There may possibly be a sequel – I have some ideas – I would really like to write one. It will be under a different title – not sure yet what it will be. We'll see. (ramble, ramble)**

7. Purge Your Soul

_Chapter title inspired by The Power of Love- Frankie Goes to Hollywood- Album- Welcome to the Pleasuredome_

There was a puzzled look on John's face and then suddenly it cleared.

"I think… I…remember…what I'm suppose to do...to…stop this," He looked up so he could see Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock?...I'm supposed to for…forgive you. I forgive you. Sherlock," he whispered.

And with that John closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

"John? John? NO! Mycroft! Help me!...please," the last word came out as barely a whisper. Sherlock lay his head down on top of John's and rocked him back and forth. "Don't go, oh please, don't go." He sobbed, "Don't leave me."

A hand laid itself upon his shoulder. It was his brother. "Sherlock, let go."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock let go of John. You can't help him now. Please Sherlock." The word please caused Sherlock to raise his head and look at his brother through tear filled eyes.

He blinked in confusion. Mycroft had never seen such a look of absolute devastation on his brother's face before. Not even when their beloved Grandfather had died.

Mycroft signaled for the paramedics to come closer. They came and the taller of the two, a woman, knelt down beside John and Sherlock. She raised John's hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist and then leaned forward and felt for the pulse at his neck. As she leaned closer to Sherlock, she looked at him and whispered, "I think you both have been stupid for long enough, don't you?"

Sherlock looked up at her in bewilderment and his eyes widened. It was as if she weren't really there. He could see her, but she wasn't _there_.

The woman kneeling beside him was dressed as a paramedic. Her hair was black; blacker than Sherlock's and although kept tied back, it was long and curly, like Sherlock's would be if he wore it at such a ridiculous length. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. They were grey, like his, but darker, stormier, like the sky during a thunderstorm. People thought Sherlock's eyes glowed. This woman's actually did. There was a gentle but slightly amused smile on her lips. She was beautiful, but in a stately and austere manner. It was clear that it wouldn't do to make her angry.

"There's something you need to say to him. Do you know what it is? You weren't meant to remember."

Sherlock stared at her. The detached part of his brain told him it was likely shock, but he couldn't deduce her. He was confused by the swirl of emotions filling his body. He frowned and shook his head. She sighed. "We will have to do this the hard way."

She reached forward with her hand and touched him on the forehead.

Memories flooded his brain rapid and thick. Suddenly he was standing on a starlit evening in the middle of a dirt road, at a crossroads. A young, beautiful girl was standing before him. There was another man handsome and rugged standing beside him. He had feelings for the girl, but stronger ones for the man.

"_You can't leave me," she was begging. "I love you! You said you loved me!" She knelt down and grabbed his leg. "I left the temple for you. I turned my back…for you. There will be nothing for me if you go."_

_He looked down at her and said, "I'm sorry Eleri. I thought I could care for you, but I don't. I can't lie any more. I am going with Perimedes." He turned to go. He could hear her broken sobs._

_He walked a few paces down the road, Perimedes followed behind. He heard her scrambling to her feet behind her. He felt bad but could not believe she was getting this hysterical. What did she expect, she was only a girl after all. Then he heard her speaking._

"_I call upon the Goddess, I call upon the Goddess of the crossroads. I beseech thee Hecate. Come to thy handmaid," she chanted in the formal language of the temples._

_The wind picked up. The warm night turned cold. The sounds of the insects and night birds died off and he shivered. He squinted in the direction of Eleri. Something dark was forming on the road beside her, something dark and foreboding. Perimedes stiffened beside him and then started trembling. One of the bravest men he knew and he was shaking like a leaf. He even felt fear creep into his heart._

_The dark turned into a roiling mist and began solidifying. The mist cleared and a tall figure stood in its place. It was a woman of astonishing beauty and horror. She had three faces on an otherwise perfectly normal looking head, one facing him the other two at either side of her head. Each face was beautiful, but cold and stern._

"_Why did you call me? You are no longer my handmaid, child," her voice was in triplicate._

"_Forgive me Goddess. While I was a handmaid I served you with honour and grace. I ask for a boon. I will give my self up to your service, for you to do as you wish, if you will bring destruction down upon the one who caused me to stray." And she pointed a finger in his direction. He saw the Goddess turn her eyes toward him and felt the weight of her stare. He could feel she found him wanting._

_She turned back to the young girl standing on the road. "What do you wish, child?"_

_Eleri drew herself up tall and proud. "I curse you Acrisias. I curse you so that you will never find anyone to love and anyone who loves you will die of heartbreak and ruin. I curse you through the centuries. You will carry this burden until you find someone who loves you in spite of your arrogance and coldness, who loves you with all of their heart and soul and saves you from yourself the way I never could," she broke down and covered her face with her hands, "The way I was meant to." And she fell on her knees and sobbed._

_He shivered in the dark._

_The Goddess's voice broke through his thoughts. "So be it. I do not forgive easily mortal boy. You have deprived me of my handmaid," she intoned and disappeared, like a light blowing out. The wind stopped and the crickets and night birds came back, tentatively at first. Over it all was the sound of Eleri's weeping._

_Perimedes gulped in fear and bolted. He yelled after him._

_The night wasn't finished with them. The sound of the insects stopped suddenly once more and the wind picked up again. This was a warmer, friendlier wind, but still unnerving._

_A form, a silver mist appeared beside him. He stepped back. He knew who this was. She had come to him once before to honour him after winning an important battle._

_She appeared before him. The grey-eyed one. His patron Goddess, Athena._

_She turned to him and looked at him with appraising eyes. "There is a darkness on your soul, belov__é__d. What has caused this?"_

_He bowed his head to her. "Mistress I have been cursed."_

"_I see," and her voice was heavy, but not with him. "You have been foolish with the maid's heart. But this is beyond my power to lift."_

_She turned to Eleri. "Child, stand before your Goddess."_

"_You are not mine!"_

"_You have been foolish as well child. Do not tempt your fate any more than it already is!" said Athena sternly. "You need to forgive this foolish boy. He has hurt you, but your curse is powerful and there will be repercussions even I cannot foreseer."_

"_NO!" Eleri screamed at the Goddess._

_The Goddess looks at Eleri dispassionately._

"_Then you too shall be cursed. You will find him lifetime after lifetime. You will love him and he will betray you as he betrayed you here. You will never have ease of heart until you learn to love him for himself, not for his grace and beauty. You will need to love him in spite of his foolishness and arrogance, just as you wished for those that fell in love with him to do so. You will follow him until you forgive him."_

"_I will never forgive him!"_

_The Goddess reached forward a long pale hand and as she did so she said, "Then child I will ensure you never forget so that you will always remember why." And she placed her finger on Eleri's forehead. Eleri screamed in pain. Athena was not finished speaking, but he didn't think Eleri could hear her._

"_You will live this torment until you both forgive each other. Him for this foolishness and heartbreak, you for the curse you have placed him under. Yours shall be the heavier burden, because your curse was so much more dangerous."_

_Then Athena turned to her belov__e__d soldier. "You will not remember. She has to win your heart and you hers with out you knowing. I am disappointed in you both. You were meant to do great things together. You have wasted that opportunity. Hopefully you will learn quickly and forgive each other soon." And with that the Goddess departed._

Sherlock opened his eyes. His head was pounding. He blinked away the disorientation of being transported back from Ancient Greece to Modern London. He looked at the woman (Goddess?) in front of him.

"You know what to do," she said.

That was probably the easiest thing he could ever do. Of course he could forgive John. It was ridiculous. He was John. There never was anything to forgive as far as he was concerned.

He bent his head and whispered in John's ear. "I forgive you."

The woman smiled again and bent down to John's other ear.

"John? John, come back now." And she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

John shuddered and took a deep breath. He blinked heavy eyes and looked up at Sherlock with confusion. And then he smiled at Sherlock. There was such peace in that smile, a peace that Sherlock had never seen on John's face before. Sherlock bent his head and kissed the top of John's.

"What happened? Wait. I was shot. Wasn't I?" his voice was tired and confused. The paramedic kneeling beside him smiled at him and touched his forehead. "Sleep," she commanded and John looked at her for a moment and sighed deeply and slept. His face relaxed for the first time in a long time

"He has many hurts and it would be better for him not to hear our conversation. You have questions?"

Sherlock, who trusted few besides John, felt calm and secure with this person (divine being, Goddess, whatever).

"John?" he asked simply.

"One of my titles is Goddess of Just Warfare. I have some control over mortal weapons. The gunshot wound has been changed. It is now a severe graze and it will be remembered that way. He will recover." She applied gauze on the bullet wound and set up an IV while she was talking to him, as if this was the height of normal.

"The poison?"

"That was trickier," she paused. "It has left his system. There may be lasting effects. I do not know. I am not Goddess of Medicine. That would be my miscreant brother and I do not wish to owe him favours." She grimaced. Under different circumstances Sherlock would have chuckled. It seemed they had something in common. "For now he is fine. It may be his days are numbered, but seeing the life you two live, it could be anyway." And she smiled fondly on Sherlock.

"Why did it take so long to break this curse?" he asked without hesitation. He didn't know if he believed or not but he decided that since she was helping John he didn't really care. And he was curious as to what her answer would be.

The woman frowned and her face grew dark. "That was not my intent. One reason would be that the two of you are incredibly stubborn and unforgiving. But the real reason is why I wished to speak with you out of anyone's hearing." It was at this point that Sherlock noticed there seemed to be an invisible bubble of privacy around them. Time seemed to have slowed outside it. Mycroft was still standing nearby, but paused, his hand still reaching out towards Sherlock's shoulder. Lestrade was stopped in mid run as if he had been making his way toward the two of them and had been frozen.

"I did not begin the original curse. That was between Eleri and her Goddess. I modified it. I interfered as I am doing now. There are consequences when Gods interfere. We are not to involve ourselves so closely with humans, but you are all terribly fascinating and beloved. Hecate was angry and it is she that has been causing the two of you to carry on so. Down the lifetimes, she would whisper in John's ear and incite his anger and jealousy. She was angry with me for my meddling and she is angry with you for depriving her of a powerful handmaid, for he would have been great as Eleri, if Eleri hadn't strayed to your arms. Hecate's cult, for want of a better word, would have been powerful. She was denied that devotion. It was John's strength of mind in this life that caused him to finally break with her power. He started praying to me and that helped mitigate some of the original curse. That and the fact that this ridiculousness has been going on far too long." And she sighed in exasperation. "I may have interfered with that a bit as well. I was getting tired of keeping track of you two."

She finished getting John ready for transport and made as if to stand. Sherlock reached out his hand to her. She raised an eyebrow at his presumption.

"Please, can you make him forget?"

She looked surprised. "Why would you wish him to forget? Do we not learn from our past mistakes and does it not make us better people to carry those burdens? You might tamper with the essential John if I do that."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, but he continued. "Maybe not all of it, but he already has so many burdens from this life. Why does he have to continue to be punished for all those other ones?"

She looked at him. "Because you ask this for him and not for you, I will help. I will not allow him to completely forget, especially his first life. There are forces out there and things are changing around you. It would be dangerous for you both if he were to forget all of his old knowledge. I will shift his memories so that they will seem more like dreams. I cannot do anything for the knowledge he has acquired in this life. He needs those memories. He has been through torture today that will not be easily rid of, just so you know." She paused, "There will, of course be a price for this. One you both will have to pay."

"There's always a price," he said. She nodded in acceptance.

She leaned forward again and kissed John on the forehead. John sighed and his sleep seemed even deeper.

She then beckoned the other paramedic forward. She looked back at Sherlock one last time and said, "I will not be able to interfere again. From this time forward you cannot count on my help. I will be watching you, and others like me will as well. But you must know this. Beware of Hecate. She is very angry and she is vengeful. She will not like what has transpired today and she won't let him go easily. There is one in your London who is aware of her existence, who practices the old ways and she will be more than willing to help your enemy become more powerful. He will seek her out. He learned things today that greatly interested him. "

She bent down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. "I must go. The others present will not have noticed that anything untoward happened between us. You have my blessing once again Acrisias," she smiled. "Sherlock Holmes. Care for one another." There was a bright light and the paramedic standing before him was just an ordinary woman. She was directing the other paramedic to help her transfer John to a gurney.

Sherlock gave John to the paramedics and stood. He moved to get on the ambulance with him. The paramedic looked as if she might argue, but decided not to even try.

Mycroft moved behind the ambulance and said. "I have called ahead. The hospital's best doctor is standing by. I will meet you there."

Sherlock nodded tightly in thanks and the driver closed the doors. The ambulance left with a wail of sirens.

Greg came up beside Mycroft. "Your people are securing the building. There's no sign of Moriarty. Mycroft," he hesitated. "They found a bed and cuffs. John was probably…John might have been…" He found he couldn't bring himself to say it. He couldn't detach himself the way he would have done for a stranger in a similar situation.

Mycroft looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "We'll get him all the help he needs Gregory. He is after all so very important to my brother." And he smiled a genuine smile at the Inspector. Greg didn't know but that didn't happen very often. "Shall we go to the hospital?"

Greg nodded and followed Mycroft back to the car. He paused and looked around. Something had happened after John was shot. He almost saw…something. He was sure there had been a bright light.

He shrugged. He was after all tired and probably seeing things.

oOo

4 Days Later-Evening

Sherlock was sitting on the bed in his room. _Their room_ he amended with a slight smile. He had been going through some papers that had been sent to him by courier that morning. They were from an old acquaintance, a linguistics professor from Cambridge. Whilst attending Cambridge, Sherlock had helped clear his name from a potentially embarrassing incident involving 2 young female students and a badger. The pages held a transcript of the conversation John had been whispering in his sleep the night before Moriarty grabbed him.

It appeared to be half of a conversation. The half that he had heard Eleri speak in the vision Athena had given him after John had been shot. It matched fairly well with what he remembered.

There was a note at the bottom.

_I translated this as you asked. It was a fascinating challenge. I would be interested to speak with this person if they are this conversant in an obscure dialect of Classical Greek. Let me know. Don't even begin to think I have cleared our debt. You can contact me at anytime._

Sherlock would have to write back and let him know that it was doubtful that John would be conversing in Ancient Greek anytime soon. He didn't even know how to explain that John only spoke it in dreams.

John had awoken from the Goddess induced sleep the morning after being shot, with a nice set of stitches across his upper rib cage as well as various bruises and bite marks left over from Moriarty. Sherlock had plans for Dear Jim. He would hunt him down and take him apart, slowly. Pay each hurt back in full with extra. Also for emotional damage inflicted. John flinched whenever approached by male hospital staff. They released him in the afternoon and every night after falling asleep at home he had a different set of nightmares to deal with. Sherlock held him tight in his arms afterwards, talked him through the worst of it and then held him through the rest of the night, John sleeping with his head on Sherlock's chest. The doctor was planning on going back to therapy for a while. Mycroft was looking into it for him.

But in spite of these new burdens there was a difference about John. He seemed lighter and although they held darkness from his ordeal, his eyes were clearer and looked younger.

There was a slight noise from the figure on the bed beside him. He reached an absent minded hand and ran it through John's hair. John murmured something and stilled. John had gone down for a nap earlier, still recovering. Sherlock glanced at the sleeping doctor. As if connected by Sherlock's thoughts, John stirred once more and slowly opened his eyes and looked into the impossibly silver eyes of the man beside him. Sherlock decided that sleep tousled hair on John was another on the long list that did funny things to his chest.

John blinked and grinned sleepily at Sherlock. He stretched, pulled himself up beside Sherlock and looked at the papers he was holding. He frowned, a puzzled look forming on his face.

He glanced at Sherlock, "Where did you get all that?"

"You were whispering this in your sleep the night of the seizures. I recorded it and sent it to an acquaintance. He translated it. It tallies with what I remember."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. He was still mildly bemused that Sherlock was accepting all of this weirdness so calmly.

The detective had told him some of the conversation he had had with the Goddess, but not all. John didn't question the vision, not after everything he'd been through.

He looked at the words on the page.

"I remember her more clearly than any of the others. Eleri I mean. I don't mind remembering being her." There was a small note of sadness to his tone as if he were missing an old friend.

"Athena seemed to think it might be important for you to remember being Eleri." He hadn't told John that he'd made a deal with Athena. John believed that the Goddess had taken the edge off of his memories for free. Sherlock couldn't have known that the price would be for John and Sherlock to be apart for more than a year. Or that he'd almost kill John with grief, thinking Sherlock was dead. And he couldn't possibly know the depths Moriarty would go for revenge.

John's stomach decided that now was as good a time as any to remind them it was empty.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow back at him.

"Starving?"

John grinned. "Angelo's?"

"Take out?"

"Oh god yes. I'm not quite up to people yet."

Sherlock looked at him and frowned. "John…"

"I'm alright, love," he said and smiled. The smile went straight to Sherlock's heart. "I just need some time to feel like me again. Well a different me I suppose. I'm not use to not having so much baggage. Or at least familiar baggage. This other baggage I could do without." He trailed off, staring into space.

Sherlock reached for John's hand and gave it a squeeze. John came back from wherever he'd been and leaned over and kissed Sherlock deeply, passionately, cupping in face in his hands.

Sherlock broke away first. "John, I don't want to do anything…"

"He can't hurt us Sherlock. I won't let him. I won't let him do this to us." He kissed him again. "I need you to… heal me. Replace bad memories with good ones. I know it won't fix everything, but it might help for tonight." He bit his lip a little.

Sherlock leaned his head down and touched John's forehead with his own. Then he lightly brushed his lips across the other man's forehead.

John's stomach spoiled the moment once again.

The detective smiled into the doctor's eyes. "We'd better order lots of pasta."

"Good to have lots of carbohydrates, you know, for maintaining energy."

"You're sure John?" he asked with a worried frown.

John nodded, and added, "More than you know."

Sherlock held out his hand and helped his partner, in so many ways, up out of their bed.

oOo

Later That Same Night

Greg was dreaming.

He wasn't sure where he was, but there was something about it that reminded him of a trip he and his wife had taken to Greece, back before things went sour.

_He was standing in a room and there was a beautiful woman standing in front of him. She was stern and stately, with dark curly hair and grey eyes. He could tell she was angry with him. _

"_You abandoned your friend."_

"_I was afraid."_

_She frowned at him._

"_I need someone to watch over Acrisias and Eleri. I need someone to remember the tale. To help them remember it. I charge you Perimedes, you and your descendants, to tell the tale as you saw it. To recognize the people you abandoned. You will not know the whole of the story, but that is fitting since you did not stay."_

"_Your will Goddess."_

And Greg had the most peculiar feeling that the lady from his dreams was standing in his room while he slept, standing watching him. He could have sworn he heard her say,

"They will need your help Gregory. Don't forget. Watch out for them, especially John."

And he felt lips kiss his forehead and he rolled over into a deeper sleep.

oOo

The Next Day

On a dark narrow street, a man walked into a run down shop in a building of indeterminate age. The shop was one of those catering to those who practice so-called new age religion, people who had no idea that this shop catered to a religion older than time. He strolled into the shop like he owned it and approached the young woman standing behind the counter.

"Hello beautiful. Is the owner of the shop about?" he spoke with a lilting Irish accent.

The young woman, not much older than a girl really, shuddered. You got a lot of crazies coming into this place but there was something about this man's cold black stare that frightened her.

"She's busy out back. She don't talk to many."

"Oh I believe she'll see me. Tell her," and he leaned forward flicking his eyes up from her chest to her lips back to her eyes. "Tell her Hecate sent me." And he grinned a shark's grin.

As she left to talk to the owner she thought she heard him singing under his breath. She thought she heard something about sailor named John.

You got all kinds here.

The End


End file.
